


condition (ie, "bare concrete room")

by prettywellfunded



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Adaptive Masochism, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Barebacking, Breathplay, Captivity, Conditioning, Daddy Kink, Depression, Dick Smacking, Dirty Talk, Disordered Eating, Dom/sub Undertones, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Humiliation, Intrusive Thoughts, Isolation, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Objectification, Possessive Behavior, Stockholm Syndrome, Under-negotiated Kink, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Waxing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2020-01-13 09:58:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 25
Words: 42,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18466624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettywellfunded/pseuds/prettywellfunded
Summary: Peter's known who had him from the first time he woke up - there's only one person who can.  Nothing like a kidnapping happens in this city without Tony Stark's approval, and Peter's been...a pest. Deliberately antagonizing, ever since Ben.  He's not entirely sure what he thought he would accomplish - and he's thought on that a lot since he arrived here - but he didn't really expect it to be...this.  Aunt May must be out of her mind.Still, Peter is a little surprised that when someone finally comes to see him, it's Tony Stark himself.[the fic formerly known as "the one where Peter is locked in a bare concrete room"]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [posted](https://pretty-well-funded.tumblr.com/post/184164987837/kidnapped-peter-pt-4) starting last week for the prompt: Mafia Tony kidnapping Peter and conditioning him so Peter would be his little slut?

They grab Peter right off the street, at 2am. 

He should have been at home asleep, but apparently Peter doesn't learn from his mistakes. He's grabbed, hooded, tied, and tossed in a van before he can blink, and before he can recover from the shock and struggle, a needle slides into his arm and he's out.

He wakes up in a small concrete room in his boxer shorts, which is... 

It's been long enough for him to be hungry, so maybe morning. The room is so small he can't even stretch out on the floor, and Peter's a small guy, still waiting for a growth spurt that might never come. Parkers don't run big.

So it's...three feet by five feet, maybe. Concrete floor, concrete walls, concrete ceiling, and cold like he's underground. Not dirty, though. The cement is pale and clean, like it was pressure-washed recently, and that...isn't comforting. There's a drain in the sloping floor. 

The room holds 5 objects: 3 gallons of water, a bucket, and Peter.

He tries not to panic at that.

The door to the room is steel, with no knobs or locks on the inside. There's a food slot against the floor, which is locked, plus what he's guessing are two sliding windows, one at eye-level when Peter's standing, one at eye-level when he's sitting up. They're also locked. 

Overhead, there's a light bright enough to make him feel like it's a supermarket, and a camera. The cell - and Peter can't call it anything but a cell - may be small, but its ceiling is at least 10 feet. Peter can't reach the fixtures even when he stands on the overturned bucket (he tries).

He watches a fly crawl straight up the wall and feels jealous.

*

No one comes for him.

He knows they must be watching on a monitor somewhere. He yells and throws the bucket hard enough to smack the durable housing of the camera, but no one comes to check or gloat. No one comes to feed him, either. Peter drinks his water - carefully, rationing just in case - and pees down the drain, and when he has to, on what he thinks is the second day, shits in the bucket. 

The lights go off sometimes, and he can only guess it's at night. It's not completely dark, there's a red light, and Peter finds himself grateful for that mercy. Without it, he'd be left in the pitch black, and he thinks that might drive him insane. He's not scared of the dark, but in THAT kind of darkness he knows the mind plays tricks, and his sleeping-waking schedule has gotten weird.

He was so hungry for the first two light cycles, then somewhere in the third, his stomach stopped growling. He feels hollow, and it aches a little, but it doesn't feel like what he considers hunger. Peter's never been this long without food - what he thinks is four days - and any tantrums he might have had are beyond him right now. His mind is racing in a surprisingly energized way...one that makes sleeping difficult. His body, though, is sluggish. By the fourth "day," he doesn't even bother sitting up.

*

Peter's known who had him from the first time he woke up - there's only one person who can. Nothing like a kidnapping happens in this city without Tony Stark's approval, and Peter's been...a pest. Deliberately antagonizing, ever since Ben. He's not entirely sure what he thought he would accomplish - and he's thought on that a lot since they stuck him in here - but he didn't really expect it to be...this. Aunt May must be out of her mind.

Still, Peter is a little surprised that when someone finally comes to see him, it's Tony Stark himself.

The top window opens, then closes, and Peter sits up for the first time in hours, heart pounding at the sudden change after days of nothing. Then the bottom window opens, and he sees that famous and feared face maybe five feet away, well out of arms reach, just sitting on the floor of the hallway in his expensive suit, leaning against the wall and looking at Peter. 

"You don't look like the holy terror that my people seem to think you are."

Peter doesn't speak, too aware that he holds exactly none of the cards to release any of the venom trapped in his throat. Tony Stark smiles like he hears some of it anyway and finds it adorable.

"You hungry?"

Peter hesitates, but he's acutely aware of his stomach, so he nods. 

The food slot opens and a tray is pushed through. It's just soup, but Peter couldn't care less, and he tucks in right away.

Tony Stark just stays and watches.

"Push it back through," he says, when Peter's finished. He does.

The soup has perked him up a bit. His voice sounds odd and disused when he says, "How long have I been here?"

"Well, let's see. We grabbed you way past your curfew on Sunday night, or rather Monday morning, and now it's Friday, roughly dinner. Your Aunt May is very worried. She seemed beside herself on the evening news, Wednesday."

Peter's jaw clenches and he tries not to speak.

"It's funny, they told me you're chatty as hell when you're out on the street making a nuisance of yourself. And now I've spent the better part of half an hour with you, and gotten five words."

Peter wants to say a lot of things, and half of them are expletives. He wants to ask why he's here, or what they're going to do with him, why he isn't dead already, if they'll ever let him go. But he suspects he won't get any answers, so he doesn't give the satisfaction of having asked.

"This is your own fault, you know," the man says eventually when Peter doesn't speak. It takes every scrap of Peter's willpower not to respond. "I'm not talking about the property destruction or tips to the police, though that has been a monumental pain in my ass. But I never would have let my men grab you in broad daylight. Or hell, even a reasonable hour. I gave strict orders - only grab the kid if he's out and about when all good boys are in bed. You should've stuck to your curfew, Peter Parker."

Peter breathes and keeps his mouth shut. Tony Stark tips his head and stares at him for a while, waiting Peter out.

And when he doesn't speak, Tony Stark smirks and says, "You'd think you would've learned better than to pull that shit by now. Isn't this also how you got your uncle killed?"

"It's your fault he's dead, you piece of shit."

"Whoops," the man says, looking far too pleased with himself. "I'm afraid rude boys have to sleep on concrete with no dinner. Or breakfast, or lunch..."

The viewing window snaps shut and doesn't give when Peter throws himself at it, pounding and swearing until he's panting and exhausted.

He curls in on himself, trying to conserve body heat, and hates himself a little, wishing he could tell Aunt May that he's sorry, until he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

When Peter wakes up, he feels off - the same lingering disorientation he got after they drugged him and threw him in here. Someone's been inside his cell. The bucket has been emptied and his water, which was running low, has been replaced.

He doesn't see another human or a single morsel of food for three days.

*

When the viewing window reopens, Peter's almost pathetically grateful.

It's Tony Stark again. And this time, he doesn't speak first.

Peter fidgets anxiously for a moment before he breaks. "Did you bring food?"

Mr. Stark's mouth tips up in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Maybe. Do you deserve it?"

He chokes back his first response and breathes deep. He NEEDS to eat. "Please. I'll be good."

"Well, since you asked so nicely."

The food slot opens and Peter yanks the light meal through, bolting the food down too fast. 

He eats in silence. Afterwards Tony Stark beckons and Peter pushes the tray back through the slot. 

The man still doesn't speak. He just watches Peter patiently, like he's waiting for something specific.

"...Thank you."

Peter's graced with a slightly wider smile, this time. "You're welcome."

Silence, again. Peter feels desperate, afraid that the window will soon close and he'll be alone again for days with nothing to do and no one to talk to. He feels the panic well up in his throat.

"Why am I here?"

Mr. Stark hums. "I couldn't let you get away with making a fool of me forever. You must've known."

Peter swallows thickly at his tone. "So why aren't I dead?"

"That would be a waste, wouldn't it? I'd rather put you to good use."

Peter frowns. "What does that mean?"

"What does it sound like it means?"

"I'll never work for you."

"Work for me," Mr. Stark says like that's novel and somehow amusing. "I suppose that's one way to describe it. I do have several jobs that I'd like you to do."

Peter feels his anger rising and shoves it down, though it trembles in his voice when he promises, "I'm not going to help you sling drugs and steal from hard-working people."

Mr. Stark laughs, and the sound pings strangely off the walls of the space. "I won't expect that, don't worry."

Peter draws breath to ask another question, letting it catch in his throat when Mr. Stark shakes his head, face falling into something stern. 

"Let's stop while you're ahead. Good night, Peter."

And then he's, once again, alone.

*

Before the lights go out that same day, a second meal is pushed through the food slot. Peter can feel how impaired his thinking was before, now that he's had just a little more nourishment. 

Mr. Stark doesn't visit the next day, but food still comes. Peter doesn't see anyone, just a tray at the open slot door, but he knows someone must be standing just out of sight. Peter waits until he pulls the tray through to say, "Hello?" If it's breaking a rule, he doesn't want to go without food.

It doesn't matter. No one answers. No one ever answers.

He gets two meals a day. They're bland and not very filling, but it's so much better than nothing. Though in some ways, it's worse, because now that his brain works, he circles to the same thoughts over and over: What do they want him for? Why is he alive? Is he ever going to see Aunt May or Ned again? 

By the fourteenth day, his skin feels…wrong. It's not just that he's filthy, though he is. But his skin feels wrong because…everything's cold and hard and smooth in his world. Just his bucket and his water and his walls and the floor. And the drain. Sometimes Peter traces the grate pattern, just for something new. 

He dreams about blankets and sweaters and mattresses. He's almost numb to the slight, constant chill, but the floor only seems to get harder the longer he's here. He aches all over, all the time. Sometimes Aunt May would sit with him on the floor to play games and watch movies, and she'd groan whenever she had to stand up. The floor's never bothered Peter before, but now he thinks he understands how she feels.

He dreams of her hugs, too. And her laughter. Dreams of bumping shoulders with Ned in the hall, and building Lego sets.

There's nothing for him here. Nothing to do. Peter's losing his mind.

When the viewing slot opens on the fifteenth day, Peter scrambles over to sit close, completely unconcerned about dignity. It's been seven days since he saw another person.

He can't even be ashamed at how breathless and eager he sounds when he says, "Mr. Stark, hi," nose practically pressed to the door. 

He gets a real smile in a return, the kind that shows up around the eyes. "Mr. Parker, hello."

"What, um. What kept you away so long?"

Mr. Stark quirks an eyebrow at him. "Well, you know, I do have an empire to run. I didn't think you'd miss me."

Peter fidgets and bites his cheek to keep from saying he did. He's glad he's close to the door so Mr. Stark can't see anything but his eyes. He almost speaks half a dozen times.

"Do you _want_ me to visit more often?" Mr. Stark asks. 

Peter punches himself in the thigh to keep from saying no. He punches himself again to keep from saying yes. But what if doesn't respond, and Mr. Stark never comes back? The thought is unbearable. "Yes," he finally says. When Mr. Stark doesn't move, he adds, "Yes, please."

Mr. Stark's eyes seem warm and fond, and Peter feels seen, and he doesn't want it to stop. "How often would you like me to visit?"

Peter chews his lip. _All the time_ , his head screams. _Don't leave. Don't ever leave_. "I don't know. When you can. I can't…I know you're busy."

There's an unbearable silence, and then Mr. Stark says, "Would you like it if I came every day?"

"Yes, please," Peter rushes out before he can even think. 

Mr. Stark smiles. "Then I will."

Peter has to look down at his lap to keep Mr. Stark from seeing how his eyes grow wet with gratitude. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. How's the food?"

"It's okay."

"Nothing to write home about, huh?"

As if he'd let Peter write home. God, May. Peter shrugs, eyes still averted, unsure if Mr. Stark can tell he even responded.

"I know it's pretty bland. After so long off of food, we don't want to hurt your stomach."

The twinge of rage feels like a far-away thing. "It's fine. Really." At least he's being fed.

"How would you like a peach?"

Peter's eyes jump up to meet Mr. Stark's. His mouth waters.

"That would be…amazing."

"Then I'll bring you one tomorrow. Goodbye, Peter."

The viewing door closes and Peter has to bite his fist to keep from screaming. It’s not enough. He’s so alone. 

But he'll be back tomorrow. Mr. Stark said he'd come back tomorrow. And he'll bring a peach.


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Stark comes back the next day, and he brings the promised peach.

He sits closer to the door this time, instead of across the hall. His legs are crossed just like Peter's, but he's wearing a fancy suit and it's an odd juxtaposition.

Peter watches as he takes a paring knife and deftly excises a slice. The whole time, Mr. Stark's talking about a rainstorm.

The slice is resting partly on the knife, partly on Mr. Stark's knuckle, when he offers it through the slot. Peter's mind pauses on the possible weapon for a second, but Mr. Stark has a firm grip. He'd never manage to take it away.

Peter reaches for the slice of peach instead, but yanks his fingers back when he gets a sharp tisk of disapproval. He meets Mr. Stark's eyes, but the man doesn't speak. Just gestures for Peter to take the fruit.

Hesitant, unsure if he's reading this right but oddly, stomach-churningly sure that he is, Peter leans forward and opens his mouth.

Mr. Stark smiles and lays the slice on his tongue.

Peter knows that he's blushing, but he's quickly distracted by the flavor bursting on his tongue, the way the slice practically melts in his mouth because it's just that perfectly ripe.

When he opens his eyes, Mr. Stark is watching him sharply through the hole in the door. 

"Good?" His voice is gruff.

"So good. Thank you."

Mr. Stark smiles and cuts another slice free, popping it in his own mouth this time. "Damn. That _is_ good." 

They finish the whole peach that way, one slice for Peter, one slice for Stark, mostly in silence. Peter feels weirdly full when they're done. He's pretty sure his stomach is smaller than it used to be.

*

Mr. Stark keeps his word and visits every day. Sometimes he brings food, stuff that's tastier than Peter's normal meals. He always feeds Peter by hand. Once he brings chocolate, but it's too sweet, after so long without candy. It nearly makes Peter sick.

Other times, he sits across the hall again, and reads out loud. The first time it happens, it's just news headlines, but as he gets Peter to talk, it's other things, things that Peter likes. Scientific discoveries, tech news, The Hobbit. Mr. Stark has a nice reading voice.

He never stays very long. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. It always goes so fast.

Peter knows what Mr. Stark is doing. The isolation, the lack of control over even the most basic things, the lack of anything good in his life except him. The withholding, the rewards. The way everything good Peter has comes directly from Mr. Stark's hands.

It doesn't matter that he knows. It's working anyway. Peter spends his whole entire day anticipating those short little visits. Mr. Stark is the only lifeline Peter has, and he knows it's on purpose, but what does it matter? It just means Mr. Stark can and will take it away.

Peter's spent a great deal of time considering why he's still here, what Mr. Stark wants from him, and none of the answers are good.

On day 22, Peter asks for his first favor. He's been careful, so careful, not to request anything beyond what he needs to live. 

"Mr. Stark?"

The man looks up from finding where they left off in Tolkien. "Yeah?"

Peter chews the inside of his cheek for a second, but he can't stand it any longer. "Can I ask you for something?"

"You can always ask."

Peter knows his face is red. "I, um. Can I have a pair of clean underwear? These are. These are so gross."

Mr. Stark's eyes flick up and to the left, the first indication he's ever given that another person is with them is there. Though Peter had guessed as much. "You may."

Mr. Stark reads to him until someone comes back with his underwear, but it's not just underwear. Mr. Stark also gives him a hoodie.

As Peter snuggles into the soft fleece lining and pulls the hood up over his head, he knows that he's experiencing positive reinforcement, and he just doesn't give a damn.

*

On day 33, Mr. Stark sits down and says, "Pete, I need to ask you a question." 

That's never happened before. Peter is immediately wary, but what else can he say. "Okay."

He smiles. "My guys are getting a little sick of drugging you every time they need to get in your room. But I told them I thought you could behave. Will you?"

Peter's heart pounds. "Yes. Yes, sir. I'll be good."

Mr. Stark nods like he expected as much, but he's glad to hear it. He looks at the other person out there with him, then there's the scrape of a lock and the door swings opens.

It's the first time Peter's seen more than a six-inch by twelve-inch strip of hallway at a time. He realizes his hands are trembling a little when Mr. Stark steps in and extends a hand to help him stand up.

It's warm and soft and he has a good grip, and it's the first time anyone's touched him in more than a month.

When Peter's on his feet, Mr. Stark combs his fingers through Peter's tangled, greasy hair and hums. "How about a shower, while they do what they need to?"

"That…that would be good."

Mr. Stark smiles.

*

The shower is… _amazing_. 

The bathroom Mr. Stark takes him to is a small, chilly space not much better than his cell, but the water is hot and strong, and the whole thing feels so goddamn good. Shampoo has never brought Peter to tears. 

He feels clean for the first time in…what feels like his whole entire life, then he dries off with the big fluffy towel Mr. Stark gave him and dresses in the clean boxer-briefs and clean hoodie he also brought. He uses a toilet for the first time in a month.

After everything is done, Peter knows he has to go back outside, but the thought of going back to that cell makes him sob.

There's a rap on the door. "Peter? You okay in there?"

"Yeah."

The door opens, because of course it was never locked and Peter knew it. He tries to turn towards the wall to hide his face but it's a lost cause. He's ugly-crying now, sobbing, and a month ago he would have guessed he'd get a slap across the face, but now Mr. Stark pulls him into a hug and the floodgates open.

Peter clings, and Mr. Stark is a great hugger, a surprise that only makes him cry harder. 

When Peter finally cries himself out, he's hesitant to take his face out of its little burrow in Mr. Stark's neck, mortified to face the man, even as he soaks up Mr. Stark's long, sure strokes up and down his back. 

"What can I do for you, Pete? What will make it better?"

Peter chokes back a hysterical laugh, because it's so fucked up. The real answer is _let me go home _, but he knows that isn't going to happen, so he won't waste his breath.__

__He doesn't even think he'll get what's second best, but the panic at the thought of being put back in that cell claws up his throat. "Please don't put me back. I can't…I can't…I've been good. I'm trying to be good. P-please, I can't stand another minute in there, Mr. Stark. What…what do I have to do?"_ _

__Mr. Stark pulls away to look at him. His face looks soft and Peter can't help but lean into it like a cat when Mr. Stark wipes the tears off of his cheeks. "You have been good. Let me show you something."_ _

__He tangles their fingers together and pulls Peter over towards a narrow door that Peter assumed was…storage or something._ _

__Maybe it was, because the room on the other side isn't that big. It is big enough, however, to fit a twin-sized mattress that's invitingly piled with blankets and pillows, with enough space to move around, besides. In addition to the little door to the bathroom, there's another door that goes to the hallway. It's like the one on his cell, with a food tray slot and a viewing window. His eyes snag on something beside the door. A light switch. He'd be able to control the light._ _

__"Is it…mine?"_ _

__Peter feels sick with how bad he wants it, and his knees start to go a bit when Mr. Stark nods yes so Mr. Stark has to brace him on his feet. "A reward, for behaving yourself. Also..."_ _

__Mr. Stark hesitates, and Peter realizes he's clinging again, fists white-knuckled on the man's fine lapels._ _

__"I have to leave town on business for a bit, so you won't see me. Hopefully this will make it a little more comfortable to be alone."_ _

__Peter swallows down the bile at the thought of days without anyone. Now that he's standing so close to another person, he doesn't even want to let Mr. Stark out of reach. "How long?"_ _

__"I'm not sure. Five days, something like that."_ _

__"Okay."_ _

__Peter must sound as miserable as he is, because Mr. Stark pulls him back into a hug and Peter buries his face and breathes him in. He smells really good, like Peter's sweatshirts. "You'll be fine. You'll be just fine. How about I leave you our book? You can finish it while I'm gone."_ _

__Peter's response is muffled against Mr. Stark's jacket, but Mr. Stark must understand it's affirmative. He pulls Peter away, far too soon, and presses a kiss to Peter's forehead, beard scratching/tickling his skin. Uncle Ben never had a beard._ _

__"Be good," Mr. Stark says, and then he's gone. He exits through the bathroom, and its hallway door locks behind him._ _

__Peter crawls onto his mattress and sighs at how soft it is, how good it feels. He cocoons himself in the covers and soaks up the unbelievable comfort around him. He's so drained, he'd unconscious in seconds._ _


	4. Chapter 4

Mr. Stark is gone for ten days.

It's better, this time around. Peter has creature comforts and slightly better meals and a book to read, but still. He's achingly, acutely lonely, every day that passes without another human.

He replays their last interaction in his head a thousand times. The way Mr. Stark touched him, comforted him, held him. He doesn't want to be grateful. The man took everything away, and only gave back the most basic human kindness, only when it suited him.

It doesn't even matter. Peter thinks about those arms around him, that kiss on his forehead, and just wants to feel it again.

He knows it's not his fault, but he hates himself a little.

He wonders if he should have tried to run while he had a chance. Except, he didn't. Peter doesn't know where he is, exactly, but he knows it must be a building controlled by Mr. Stark. Whether it's out in the middle of nowhere or in a densely-populated part of Manhattan doesn't really even matter. Peter never would have made it out the door. The only thing making a break for it would have earned him was punishment. 

It doesn't mean Peter's given up, it _doesn't_. He just has to be smart. If he's good…if he's really really good, maybe some day he'll earn more freedom. Mr. Stark has already proven he can earn that. If he keeps cooperating, maybe someday he'll have a reasonable chance of actually getting away.

He just needs to give Mr. Stark what he wants.

The problem is, no matter how often Peter circles the question, he can really only think of one thing that could be.

Mr. Stark hasn't done anything to make Peter think he wants Peter to work for him. He laughed the one time Peter brought it up. They don't talk about Mr. Stark's illegal business, and while they sometimes talk about science and tech, the idea that he was kidnapped as a recruit him for the legitimate Stark Industries is absurd.

Every lesson Mr. Stark enforces is a personal one. Don't be rude, don't talk back, address him with deference, be grateful for any kindness. Any pleasure Peter is granted comes directly from Mr. Stark's hands.

Peter's not stupid. He can do that math.

It's smart, the way Mr. Stark is doing this. Letting Peter's mind do the hard work for him. Even though he knows, _even though he knows_ , Peter finds himself thinking: at least Mr. Stark's attractive. It's not something Peter ever considered, but he might have, if Mr. Stark was someone that he could admire. He finds himself thinking: at least Mr. Stark's not using brute force. It doesn't make it better, he _knows_ it doesn't make it better, but at least Peter can pretend he has a choice. He finds himself thinking: at least he's actually gay. 

Finds himself thinking: at least maybe this gives him a way out. He can't imagine Mr. Stark wants to fuck in a chilly basement for long.

*

Peter doesn't let any tears fall when Mr. Stark gets back, but it's a close thing. 

The sight and sound of another person is almost overwhelming, even before he gives Mr. Stark permission to sit on his bed. They eat a meal together, for the first time, and Peter listens to Mr. Stark talk about nothing important, and afterwards, when Mr. Stark has pushed the trays out in the hall, he leans against the wall and pulls Peter against his side and starts reading The Two Towers.

Peter doesn't intend to interrupt until he does. "Mr. Stark, can I ask you a question?"

Mr. Stark puts the book down, and turns to look at Peter as best he can, given how close they are. "Ask away."

Peter stalls out, then. He knows what he wants to ask, but saying the words out loud seem…dangerous. Ill-advised.

Mr. Stark presses his lips to Peter's hair, and combs through the tails of it idly. 

"Am I – I'm here for sex, aren't I?"

"Smart boy," Mr. Stark murmurs, almost to himself, and Peter's stomach swoops. Neither of them move. Peter tries hard not to tense up too much. It's hard not to, though, when Mr. Stark says, "If you're asking whether I brought you here to be a mindless fucktoy, the answer is no. But I do intend sex to be a part of our relationship."

Peter's breaths are shallow. The word _fucktoy_ sticks in his brain like a burr. Mr. Stark, for all his…flaws, has never been crass. "W…what does that mean?"

Mr. Stark rubs his arm. "It means that you're a brilliant boy, not just a pretty one."

A laugh escapes Peter that has an edge of hysteria. "You're actually saying you don't want me just for my body?"

Mr. Stark actually laughs, too. "I guess so. What can I say? I don't meet many people in my line of work that I like, Pete."

There's a thread of irony laced through the words, but even though Peter finds it kind of funny, that doesn't stop the discordant scream inside his head.

"How do you feel about it?" Mr. Stark asks softly, and if circumstances were completely different, Peter might believe he gave a damn.

"I…I don't really know." And that's the truth. Because Peter learned a long time ago that wishing for things to be different is useless. You have to deal with what is.

"They told me you got a new hobby while I was gone."

It takes Peter a minute to get it, and when he does, he's so embarrassed and flustered, he buries his face against Mr. Stark's jacket. He can feel Mr. Stark chuckle, and really isn't sure whether it makes him feel relieved or enraged.

Peter wasn't exactly horny while he was locked in a barren room and shitting in a bucket with no access to hygiene. After a few days of being warm and clean, well-rested and comfortable…not to mention _bored_ …

He pretty much forgot this room has cameras. He wasn't always under the covers.

Mr. Stark lifts Peter's hand and kisses his knuckles. Peter's torn about the degree to which he's found this creepy. "I'm glad you're feeling comfortable in your new space."

They sit there, pressed together, for a long time. Peter's reluctant to sit up and move away, but it also feels like…it feels like now that he's named the elephant in the corner, he can't live without more answers.

"What do you expect from me?"

There's a long pause. "I'm not in any hurry. If I'm not mistaken, then you're new to this."

_This_ , Peter assumes, is sex in general and not being coerced into it by a crime lord. So he nods.

"I wouldn't object to getting a private show," Mr. Stark says. There's a beat. "When you're ready."

Peter's heart is pounding and he knows he's breathing too fast. He believes Mr. Stark that he'll wait, that he won't force anything (…yet), but he also thinks that waiting can only make this more difficult.

He sits up, not looking Mr. Stark in the face and aware that his own is flushed with some combination of arousal, embarrassment, and shame. "H – um, how?"

Mr. Stark's eyes are dark and…consuming, when Peter darts him a look. "Why don't you take off that sweatshirt, to start."

Peter does, not…sexy, he wouldn't begin to know how. He just takes it off and chucks it away, pushing his hair back down out of its floof. Mr. Stark reaches out to help, petting Peter fondly. Peter wishes he didn't enjoy that, but maybe it's good that he does.

"Now, lay back and pretend I'm not here."

"Oh, is it that easy?" Peter mutters under his breath. Mr. Stark seems to think it's funny, thank god.

There's not much to do but follow Mr. Stark's advice, frankly, so Peter piles up the pillows and makes himself comfortable. He closes his eyes against Mr. Stark's intense gaze.

He's grateful Mr. Stark didn't suggest he remove his underwear yet. He reaches down and touches himself through the cotton, working himself up to what he'd normally do. He's already most of the way hard, just from thinking about sex while fifteen, and he's breathing heavily enough – with both nerves and arousal – to almost cover up the quiet sound of Mr. Stark's breath.

His dick is straining impatiently at his waistband by the time he's almost worked himself up to going skin-to-skin. He jumps, startled, when a hand strokes up his thigh.

"Why don't we take these off?" Mr. Stark says quietly, and Peter tries to ignore the burn in his cheeks as he peels the boxer-briefs down with Mr. Stark's help.

Pretend he's not even there. Right.

Peter's eyes flutter open long enough during the process to see exactly how closely Mr. Stark looks at his body. He can feel the attention even after he closes his eyes.

There's no dignity whatsoever in the sound he makes when he wraps his hand around his dick. It's so much more intense, somehow, knowing Mr. Stark is there.

And Mr. Stark isn't exactly unobtrusive, murmuring "that's it," and "beautiful," and "play with your balls a little, sweetheart." He settles his hand on Peter's knee, fingers curving around to stroke the crease idly in a way that really shouldn't be hot.

Peter's whole body feels like it's on fire.

He's not sure what makes him open his eyes, but when he does, they're drawn like a magnet to Mr. Stark's hand in his own lap, stroking the bulge still concealed in his pinstripe slacks. 

"You're making me so hard, baby," Mr. Stark says, and Peter gasps, shuddering and desperate for air. "Playing with your eager little cock just for me. You're gorgeous."

Peter's stomach clenches, hips bucking up. Mr. Stark's cock looks…big. Peter's so close, his eyes slip shut at how intense it is – 

Then fly open at the feel of…Mr. Stark licking his cock, just leaning in and swirling his tongue all around the head and Peter shouts, coming while he watches Mr. Stark in disbelief, lapping it up.

He's trembling and exhausted by the time he's done, unable to move as Mr. Stark crawls up his body, suit brushing Peter's sweaty skin and setting off shivers, aftershocks.

He can hardly keep his eyes slitted open on Mr. Stark's face, but then Mr. Stark kisses him so he doesn't really have to. He pushes the taste of Peter into his mouth with his tongue.

"You're delicious, sweetheart." 

Peter shudders, overloaded and unable to do anything but accept the almost-chaste kiss that he gets next. Then Mr. Stark is gone, and Peter's being wrapped in the blanket that he's laying on…

He must slip out of consciousness for a second, because the door being shut and locked startles him awake. Then he's under.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter wakes up in the middle of the night – the red light's on. 

He fell asleep so early, after… He crawls under the covers and lays in the relative dark, thinking about what happened.

He's pretty sure Mr. Stark didn't come at all, at least not down here. Is he mad? Will he want that today? What does this mean for his time with Mr. Stark? Will they have sex every time he visits? It's what Mr. Stark really wants from him, so maybe, now that that they've started, that's all that they'll do. 

He wonders how fast Mr. Stark will want to do other things. They waited like a month and a half, but that doesn't mean he'll be patient now. He was just supposed to watch yesterday, watch Peter jack off, but then…

Peter rolls on his side and presses one hand against his stiff cock, hoping the way he's laying conceals any movement from the camera. Mr. Stark's mouth felt so good, and it wasn't even…it was so brief. He wonders if Mr. Stark will do things like that forever, or if like the reading and the treats, just to make Peter like him. 

He wonders if Mr. Stark will stay gentle, or if he'll be rough. Peter hasn't felt actively in danger in a long time, but that doesn't mean he's forgotten who Mr. Stark is. People disappear all the time when they piss him off, and they're not all stashed in a basement as his…as his _fucktoys_.

Peter shoves a corner of his blanket in his mouth. He's never figured out if the room's wired for sound.

An image flashes through his head, Mr. Stark, as dark-eyed and taunting as he'd been on the first day, but with a gun, standing over Peter and rubbing himself through his pants. Peter knows what he wants, but this time says no, he won't suck Mr. Stark's dick, and the safety clicks off, a cold barrel pressing against Peter's face.

Peter rocks frantically against his hand and bites down on the blanket, moaning.

He'd cooperate, after that. He doesn't want to die. Mr. Stark would smirk while he choked Peter on his cock, and he'd never help Peter get off. He'd laugh when Peter got hard from having his mouth fucked by his worst enemy, and not even let Peter touch himself. He'd have to find something to rub against or hump like a bad dog while Mr. Stark used his face – 

His orgasm is blinding, intense and exhausting, and there's no way anyone watching the feed can't tell what's happening. Peter doesn't care.

He's too busy gasping for air and wondering what the fuck just happened.

*

Peter's so horny, he jacks off again two more times throughout the day, careful to not to let his brain play through the scenarios that pass quickly through his head. 

He's showered, dressed and under the covers to hide his erection (it's _persistent_ , okay?) by the time Mr. Stark arrives with dinner.

They eat – Peter, silent and wary, Mr. Stark making idle conversation by himself, which Peter's learned he's good at. 

After dinner, Mr. Stark takes his jacket off and piles up pillows at the head of the bed. Peter thinks he understands until Mr. Stark lays down on top of the covers and pulls Peter against his side with the layer of blankets between them. His head is resting on Mr. Stark's shoulder and Mr. Stark strokes his hair as he picks up their book.

He reads. Just reads, for a long time. He smells good, like aftershave, and his voice is nice and the play of fingers through his hair makes Peter feel safe and drowsy. He's struck, suddenly and shockingly, by a memory of snuggling up to his dad for a bedtime story. 

Peter had forgotten they used to do that, always late because Dad often stayed past dinner at the lab, but Peter at four and five would lay on his dad's chest and fall asleep to that big, rumbling voice. He wonders how long they would have kept that up if his dad hadn't died.

Peter doesn't realize he's crying until Mr. Stark kisses his head and says, "Are you alright, kiddo? What's wrong?" It's more like his eyes are leaking, really, and he scrubs at them furiously, shaking his head.

"Okay," Mr. Stark says quietly, when he refuses to answer. "You seem pretty tired, we can pick this up tomorrow."

Peter doesn't want him to go, but at the same time he's relieved. 

Mr. Stark pauses at the door, and says, "I'll have someone bring you fresh sheets."

It's not until he goes to brush his teeth and comes back into the room that he gets it. The smell of stale jizz smacks him in the face and he realizes Mr. Stark must've known immediately what he did all day and why.

*

The next day is more of the same. Peter spends most of his time alone jacking off and then dozing, jacking off and then dozing, Mr. Stark comes to visit and everything is perfectly chaste, not even a hint that he thinks about Peter naked.

By the time Mr. Stark arrives the next day, Peter's pacing like a caged animal.

The door opens and Peter can't wait another second. 

"Why are you pretending you don't want to fuck me?"

Mr. Stark pauses, one eyebrow raised, then turns and passes the tray with both their dinners to someone standing just out of sight before he steps through and pulls the door closed behind him.

He leans against the door, arms crossed in the picture of nonchalance, and says, "Is that what I'm doing?"

Peter tears at his hair. "Are you _kidding me?_ You make me jack off for you, take half a step towards sucking my dick, then suddenly it's bedtime stories and forehead kisses. What the fuck else do you call that?"

" _Hm_ ," Mr. Stark says, looking completely unruffled, "'waiting for consent'?"

Peter's jaw drops. He's pretty sure his eyes are bugging out. " _Consent?_ You've had me locked in a fucking basement for two months, you goddamn freak!"

Mr. Stark's face darkens like thunderclouds, and he pushes himself upright, turning and rapping on the door. 

As the door swings open from the outside, Peter realizes he's leaving, for god knows how long. His stomach drops, and he rushes forward. "WAIT!"

Mr. Stark looks back over his shoulder. He doesn't look inclined to forgiveness.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have – that was – I'm so sorry. Please don't go. Please, Mr. Stark. Let me…I'll do whatever you want to make it up to you."

Mr. Stark nods grimly at whoever's out there, but the turns and strolls back into the room. The door latches safely behind him.

Mr. Stark still looks pissed as he wanders casually closer. "I don't have to show you any of these courtesies."

Peter flashes back to that fantasy, of Mr. Stark pointing a gun at his skull. He backs up a step. "I know. I know that."

Mr. Stark keeps walking forward and Peter keeps backing up until he's up against the wall, and Mr. Stark's in his face, one hand braced against the wall. "I don't need to keep you, Peter. Do you think I have any trouble getting my dick wet without all this?"

Peter sucks in a breath and swallows back the urge to say, _Then why don't you, you sick fuck?_ "No. No, sir."

"You're more of a liability alive than you would be dead. We can end this little experiment any minute. Just say the word." The defiance that was flashing bright collapses in an instant, leaving him terrified. "Your aunt already thinks that you're dead. Hell, maybe you should be. Was this a mistake, Peter? Should I fix it?"

Peter's hands are shaking – he shoves them between the small of his back and the wall, to hide them from sight. "No, sir. Please don't."

Mr. Stark studies his face, knuckles brushing gently down his cheek. "I'd make it painless."

Peter's eyes fall closed and he knows he's shaking visibly all over now. "Th-thank you. But I don't want that. I'll be good."

The moment stretches out ominously, endless. Peter's too scared to open his eyes and see Mr. Stark's decision play out on his face. 

"Okay," Mr. Stark says softly. "Okay, we won't do that. I know you can be good."

Peter exhales like a sob, and collapses forward into Mr. Stark, who's hugging him in an instant, shushing his ragged breath and rocking him back and forth. Like soothing a child from a nightmare, when the nightmare is him. 

"You're alright. You're a good boy, I forgive you. C'mon, let's go lay down, I know that was a lot."

Peter clings as they settle on the bed. He's still trembling. They're on their sides, wrapped around each other tight, legs tangled, and Mr. Stark's hand is sweeping up and down his back. He's murmuring "You're okay. You're okay. You're safe, I'm not mad," and it takes Peter a while to realize it's because he keeps saying, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Eventually, the trembling subsides and they both fall silent. Peter keeps his face tucked into Mr. Stark's neck. Mr. Stark's still touching him, gentle, soothing – rubbing Peter's back, massaging his neck, raking manicured nails over Peter's scalp.

"We can talk about what's got you worried," Mr. Stark says eventually. "As long as you're respectful, we can talk about anything."

Peter's too exhausted to come up with words. His thoughts are like cotton candy, sticky and thick.

"Okay," he hears Mr. Stark say. "Rest, baby. You just rest for a while."

Peter falls asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

He wakes up gasping with the ghost of a memory.

"Shh, you're alright. You're okay. Just had a little nap is all. Do you feel better?"

They're still on their sides, tangled together. "How long was I asleep?"

"Not long. Less than an hour. Adrenaline crash can be rough. You hungry?" Peter's stomach growls, loud. Mr. Stark chuckles. "That's a yes. Hap, can we get dinner?"

The last is slightly louder, but not enough to be heard in the hall. The room must be wired for sound, after all.

That means someone is watching them, or at the least listening, when they're in here together. Someone will be listening (or watching) every time they have sex.

"You ready to talk about what happened?"

Peter remembers, in vivid clarity, Mr. Stark calmly threatening to murder him. Humanely. "I'm not sure what to say."

"Just the truth."

Just the truth, sure, no risk there. Peter doesn't look up from the subtle pattern on Mr. Stark's tie. "I just. We…had sex, sort of. And then the next day, you acted like nothing happened. I keep waiting for you to do something again and it's just…really stressful."

There's a long pause, and Peter's eyes eventually flick up to Mr. Stark's. He's relieved to find the man looking soft and more accommodating. "I can see how it would be, yes. What can I do to help?"

Peter stares for moment, struggling with the correct response to that batshit-crazy question. In the end, he can only think that the best response is the version of the truth that caters the most to what Mr. Stark wants to hear.

He fixes his eyes on Mr. Stark's chin. "I can't stop thinking about…stuff."

Mr. Stark's mouth quirks up in amusement. "Stuff, huh?"

"You know, sex stuff."

Now Mr. Stark breaks into a grin. "Yeah, I figured that's what you meant. Tell me more about this 'stuff' that you think about."

Peter scrambles for something that's true that won't corner him into something he doesn't want. "Like…you touching me, and telling me what to do." Mr. Stark's tongue darts out over his bottom lip, and when Peter looks up, his pupils are huge. "You always make me feel really good, in my. Thoughts."

"And I always will, sweetheart. I'll always make you feel so very good."

In the hushed moment that follows the promise, there's a knock on the door that makes Peter jump. Mr. Stark looks immediately annoyed and yells, "Not now, Happy."

Their dinner. Right.

Mr. Stark's voice drops back down to that just-for-him purr. "The food will wait. Why don't you let me make you feel good right now, sweetheart? Make up for how much I scared you earlier, hm?"

Peter feels a little breathless as he nods. "Okay. Please."

"Good boy." Mr. Stark rolls them, pinning Peter on his back under Mr. Stark's full weight. A big hand angles Peter's head and then he's being kissed, wet and filthy and aggressive. Peter releases a startled, overwhelmed sound into Mr. Stark's mouth, and Mr. Stark groans.

Peter's hard and squirming by the time Mr. Stark sits up between Peter's spread thighs.

"Let's get you out of this before you overheat," Mr. Stark says, pulling Peter's sweatshirt off like he's a doll. His eyes are dark on Peter's body as he strips his own jacket off and tosses it aside. He leaves his vest-thing on but reaches up to pull the knot in his tie away from his throat before unbuttoning his collar. Then his cuffs are next, so he can roll his sleeves up like he's had practice. Peter has a flash of Mr. Stark doing that just before beating the hell bare-knuckled out of someone who's displeased him, and he gasps.

Mr. Stark smirks and grips Peter's face briefly. "Somebody's having naughty thoughts."

Peter nods quickly, face flushing hot, but doesn't speak. Thankfully, Mr. Stark doesn't make him. His hands travel, spread-fingered and greedy, down Peter's body, taking Mr. Stark's eyes with him.

"Fucking gorgeous. I knew I'd make you mine the first time that I saw you. Such a beautiful, brave, brilliant boy." Peter's hips jerk at the words and the close pass of Mr. Stark's hands over his boxer-briefs. Mr. Stark's eyes linger where his erection is already straining at the fabric, but his hands slide away. "I only accept the best, Peter. And Jesus, if you aren't the best thing I've ever seen."

Peter shudders, trying to hold still and be patient as Mr. Stark strokes and stares at Peter's body. He's trying to imagine what Mr. Stark sees. He's skinnier than he's ever been, after months of restricted food. Not like…famine skinny, but he can see the gentle imprint of his ribs just beneath his skin. He's also paler than he's ever been, and he wonders if Mr. Stark regrets these changes, or likes what they say about his control, or just doesn't notice them at all.

Peter's hips flex a little as he struggles to be good, and it draws Mr. Stark's attention back down. One big hand covers Peter's cock through the fabric and starts to massage it. Peter cries out, hips arching up into the contact. 

Mr. Stark looks happy and fond and sloe-eyed as he peels Peter's underwear off his legs and settles his weight back over Peter's body. His slacks are soft and feel so good on Peter's cock, and he thrusts up, moaning when Mr. Stark grinds him back down. 

"Dirty boy," Mr. Stark murmurs, and nips sharply at Peter's jaw. "This suit is worth more than you. Did I say you could rub your filthy little cock all over it?"

"No, sir – I'm sorry," Peter gasps, because the words sent shivering tendrils of humiliation down his spine, and because, in spite of his words, Mr. Stark is still grinding down against him. Rubbing Peter's _filthy little cock_ all over his expensive suit.

"Do you deserve to be punished for being a needy slut?" Mr. Stark breathes. He grips Peter's ass with both hands and thrusts Peter's hips in counterpoint to his own movements.

" _Ah!_ I don't – I don't – I want to be good."

"I know, baby." Mr. Stark sounds so sympathetic, sinking his teeth into Peter's throat. "You want to be a good boy so badly, you can't help that you were born a desperate whore."

Peter's eyes roll back and he clings to Mr. Stark, feeling every word deep in his groin. "Mr. Stark, oh god, I'm – "

"Gonna rub your spunk out all over $6,000 worth of cashmere?"

With a frantic whimper, Peter tenses up and does exactly as Mr. Stark suggested.


	7. Chapter 7

Mr. Stark must take Peter's confession to heart, because after that, there's no more uncertainty about whether Mr. Stark wants sex, or when (because it's every day).

Well. There is a little uncertainty, the very next night. When Mr. Stark arrives with dinner, and Peter probes, "What are we doing tonight?"

And then tries not to look disappointed when the answer is, "I thought we'd read some more of our book." He knows his face must show it anyway, because Mr. Stark eats his dinner quietly, looking both smug and amused.

But rather than settling in later for G-rated reading, Mr. Stark leans against the wall and tells Peter to strip naked, battered paperback in his hand.

The awkwardness of taking off his clothes hasn't passed yet, so Peter just tries to get it done as quickly as possible. Mr. Stark pats his lap like a creepy uncle, only to stop Peter when he tries to straddle him face to face. "Nope, nuh-uh, the first suit was free, but the next one will cost ya. Turn around and plant that cute little ass right here."

Peter manages to clumsily settle chest-to-back before the book is shoved into his hands.

"Be a dear and find our place, would you?" Mr. Stark says against his ear. His fingernails scratch up the inside of Peter's thighs, and Peter squirms, trying to focus.

"Excellent," Mr. Stark murmurs. "Now you're in charge of turning the pages. Don't forget."

Peter knows what's about to happen just before it does – Mr. Stark cups one hand between Peter's legs, hooks his chin on Peter's shoulder, and starts to read. He sounds…so normal, even as cupping turns to fondling. He doesn't sound like a man idly playing with a kidnapped teenager's cock.

Peter jolts, gasping, when Mr. Stark smacks his thigh, hard. "Hold the book still, Peter, we're getting to the good part."

"Okay. I mean, yes, sir."

Mr. Stark's fingers trail delicately over Peter's cock, and Peter wants nothing more than to beg for a good firm stroke. He's completely tuning out everything Mr. Stark says until the first time he misses a page turn. 

The flesh of his inner thigh stings with the force of two strikes in the same spot, and Peter's dick is embarrassingly hard.

"Pay attention," Mr. Stark demands, "or I'll have to remove all other distractions."

"Sorry – I'm sorry," he swears, biting his lip when his cock is petted fondly in reward.

After that, he keeps his eyes fixed on the words at the end of the right-hand page like a religion, turns as soon as he hears them. Beyond that, the story is lost to him, just a deep rumble he feels in Mr. Stark's chest. Mr. Stark's voice, whatever he's saying, feels pornographic against Peter's ear. 

He almost sobs when Mr. Stark finally wraps his hand around Peter's dick, thumb stroking idly back and forth across the head. Almost sobs when he does nothing else. Mr. Stark's tongue flicks against his earlobe, and Peter squirms.

He has to curse himself when Mr. Stark finally starts moving his hand. _Be careful what you wish for, Peter._ The strokes are agonizingly slow and irregular, and Peter tries to be good, he really does, but it takes all his attention just to hold still, and he has to turn the page and hold the book steady and then Mr. Stark starts to play with Peter's balls in his other hand and he just – 

Can't stay still any longer. 

When his squirming isn't scolded, Peter's hips start rocking in a rhythm, and he discovers something incredible. The more he thrusts up into Mr. Stark's hand, the more committed Mr. Stark is to stroking him.

It feels amazing to have someone else's hand, and Peter braces his feet on the mattress for leverage. He notices, like he's watching from outside, that he's making breathy little sounds on every exhale, and Mr. Stark is talking about the one true ring, but Peter hears his voice saying, _needy little slut_.

Peter's head falls back on Mr. Stark's shoulder, neck no longer supporting the weight, and suddenly there's a sharp, painful pinch on his ball sac. 

He cries out and freezes.

"You let that book fall again and you won't see me for a week. Final warning."

Peter quickly lifts the book back up to reading level and locks his arms in place, exhaling in relief when Mr. Stark's hands resume their movements. But now that he's paying attention, Peter realizes Mr. Stark's voice has gotten more breathy, and that as he rocks forward to chase his own pleasure, he's also rocking back.

He can feel Mr. Stark's hard cock through his slacks. He's been working his ass back against it.

A thrill shoots down Peter's spine, half horniness, half terror. Mr. Stark didn't ask for anything yesterday, but now Peter is practically inviting it. He's just a _needy little slut_ , just a _fucktoy_ , and he's doing his job – 

He shoots so suddenly, he doesn't even know it's coming. Mr. Stark strokes him through it, abandoning the text of the book for the moment to murmur filthy, encouraging things in Peter's ear until Peter is whining for him to stop.

When he comes back around, he realizes three things: the book is still perfectly upright, Mr. Stark has stopped reading, and the cock against his ass is still hard. Peter shifts his weight carefully, trying not to call attention, and Mr. Stark pins him still with an arm around his waist, as strong as a vice. 

"You can put the book down now, Peter."

He's a little scared about what that means, what's next, but he lays the book down beside him. Mr. Stark's fingers drag through the come on Peter's chest then demand entrance into his mouth.

He sucks them clean without being told, closing his eyes as Mr. Stark flexes his hips against Peter's ass and breathes, excited, against his neck.

Then Mr. Stark pulls his fingers away and tips Peter off of his lap. He leans in briefly to press a kiss to Peter's mouth.

"We'll try this again tomorrow. I know you'll do a better job paying attention to the book, isn't that right?"

Peter blinks, dazed. "Yes, sir. I'll do better."

"Good boy," Mr. Stark says, gives him one more kiss, and leaves.


	8. Chapter 8

They spend the next two weeks perfecting Peter's ability to hold a book and turn pages while Mr. Stark teases his cock. 

And Peter does learn to do better. To pay attention to the relevant cues separate from what happens to his body. Even when he's about to come. Even when it feels better than anything he's ever felt. Even when Mr. Stark starts to press right behind his balls and it makes Peter moan, loud and deep in his throat, nothing like the delicate, desperate little sounds that he made before.

Mr. Stark still doesn't get off. He gets more blatant about teasing himself with Peter's body, grabbing Peter's hips and moving them together, rough and fast, before abruptly letting go and saying good night. 

Slowly, Peter feels less relieved and more disappointed every day when nothing is expected in return.

*

Mr. Stark shows up one day and things are…very different.

First, he's wearing a Led Zeppelin tee and jeans. Peter has literally never seen him wear anything but a suit. In casual clothes, he looks startlingly human, and Peter wonders if that's why he's never seen it before. He looks less like a shark who hunts in boardrooms and backrooms and more like…a guy. 

A guy who likes to work on cars. He has a smudge of motor oil on his face, and when he comes closer, Peter can smell more on his clothes. 

Peter can't stop staring while they eat, to the point where Mr. Stark says, "Is there something on my face?" and Peter blushes and tells him no. 

The second thing is that after dinner, Mr. Stark gets a tablet, not a book. And when Peter gets up to strip his clothes off, Mr. Stark stops him. 

"New plan tonight. I thought we could celebrate finishing The Two Towers by watching the movie. Sound good?"

Peter hasn't seen a movie since he was kidnapped. Mostly because he hasn't seen a tv, or laptop, or phone, or any technology. And he really loves the trilogy. "Okay, yeah. Thank you."

Mr. Stark beams. "Make the bed comfy for us while I pull this up."

Peter straightens up the sheets and piles up the pillows while Mr. Stark launches the movie as a holograph playing out in front of the blank cement wall. Peter's never seen a Stark device up close, only in ads and on tv and stuff. He doubts he'll get to touch it, but even this much is amazing.

He doesn't realize how much he's missed just simple touching until they're stretched out on the bed, Peter tucked close under Mr. Stark's arm. But it's also so much better now. At some point, Peter realizes, he stopped being scared of Mr. Stark and what he would do. It's not that Mr. Stark isn't dangerous – Peter's still aware that he'll regret being born if something goes wrong. It's just that…after more than two months, Peter's accepted that Mr. Stark is… Not reasonable, but. Predictable.

He's not going to get pissed for no reason and hurt Peter. There are rules, they're clear and consistent and the punishment for violating one is…if not explicitly spelled out…hinted at frequently enough that Peter knows the consequences of his actions.

He's learned his life is not that hard as long as he does what's expected of him. And the expectations could be…so much worse.

He's not really scared anymore of Mr. Stark springing sex stuff on him he's not ready for. He could – he absolutely could – and he's never promised not to, never told Peter they won't rush, never let Peter choose the pace. But…Peter sees him observing Peter's signals before they move onto something new. He's under no delusion that he can say no, he knows Mr. Stark would probably force him if he did, he just…doesn't think it will come to that.

Mr. Stark has a plan to make Peter what he wants, and that plan seems to hinge on not grossly violating Peter's trust. (There's a little voice in his head that still says, _he kidnapped you, starved you, put you in solitary confinement and made you shit in a bucket. Isn't that a gross violation of trust?_ and Peter knows it's crazy when he thinks back, _well, yeah, but that's behind us. It was temporary. He'll never do that again unless I'm very bad, and I won't be bad. So I'm safe._

He knows it's crazy. He knows it's not safe. He knows it's never safe, and he'll probably never be safe again. But the lack of safety has rules. It's predictable. He can live with that.)

Peter doesn't know what Mr. Stark will do in a month or a year, but he knows what he'll probably do right now, and that means Peter is never tense or afraid.

It's a trust that's carefully engineered, Peter _knows_ , he KNOWS, but it's something he can rely on and he's glad for it.

Because it means that right now, Peter can lay in Mr. Stark's arms and feel good, watch a movie and not worry. He isn't scared to throw his arm over Mr. Stark's chest or wrap his leg around Mr. Stark's own, he's not scared that Mr. Stark can feel that his hard-on is pressed to the man's hip (he's used to getting sex at this time of day, alright?). 

He knows that whatever happens next, it'll be something he can handle.

Peter doesn't want to be grateful for that comfort, but he is.

*

As the movie rolls on (god, it's long, Peter forgot how long), the hand that was previously holding Peter against Mr. Stark's side…wanders. Strokes through his hair, plays with the skin under the hem of his sweatshirt, rubs his back, squeezes his ass. 

It feels really good, just to be petted, and Peter's dick (which had given up eventually) starts to wake up. Even when nothing more happens, Peter's aware of his body, alert to Mr. Stark's. The man is paying more attention than he thought.

Peter's heart rate picks up, gradually. He's excited that Mr. Stark wants to touch him tonight, after all, but knows he's got to wait. Be patient while Mr. Stark plays this game.

The game, apparently, is to slowly work Peter up without really touching him at all. His heart leaps when Mr. Stark turns his head and presses his lips to Peter's forehead, but then he turns away again and ignores him, except for the gentle play of fingertips along the bottom curve of Peter's ass. _Through_ his boxer-briefs.

Peter bites his lip to keep from whining. Mr. Stark doesn't like when he complains, not even this kind. He does like when Peter shows his enjoyment, though, so Peter turns his face into Mr. Stark's shoulder and starts rocking his hips against Mr. Stark's side.

Almost immediately, Mr. Stark's hand slips under his waistband to palm Peter's ass, skin-to-skin, and Peter breathes out a subtle sigh of relief. The wait is over.

Not that things move _fast_ but Peter didn't expect them to. He's grateful Mr. Stark's in the mood to tease when the hand in his shorts shifts over and a fingertip finds his asshole.

Peter's rhythm stutters as he locks up in surprise-excitement-apprehension. He's been expecting this – just like he expects he'll touch Mr. Stark soon – but Mr. Stark's never touched him there before. Hell, he hadn't even had the guts to touch _himself_ there before, before _all this_ , and once he got here it seemed…dangerous.

Mr. Stark turns and kisses Peter's forehead once again, and Peter makes himself unfreeze, close his eyes, and try to relax. It feels good, actually. Peter's so aware of that single fingertip as it moves in circles, lighting up nerve endings that he's never used like _this_ before. His whole body is buzzing.

It's only that, for a long time. One fingertip, gently rubbing at Peter's hole, sometimes this way, sometimes that, occasionally pressing against the resistance. Not to get in, just to test the give of the muscle in a way that's surprisingly pleasurable. Peter gasps every time it happens, hitching his knee higher up on Mr. Stark's leg and grinding his cock against the man's hip. 

After a while, he realizes Mr. Stark is watching him and not the movie, and when he meets his eyes, Mr. Stark guides him into a kiss. It's gentle but hot, just like the way his fingers are moving. 

When he pulls away, he combs the fingers of his free hand through Peter's too long hair. "That feel good, baby?"

Mr. Stark's finger probes a little deeper than it has, and Peter buries his face, moaning. "Yes."

"Am I the first, hm? The first one to play with your cute little hole?"

Peter shivers. "Yes. Yes, sir."

"Not even you, sweetheart? You never put your eager little fingers inside when you were horny?"

Peter shakes his head, desperate at a second, deeper push, hips pressing forward – either to escape or get friction on his cock, and he _doesn't know which_.

"Well, that's a shame," Mr. Stark says. "Maybe that's why you were so naughty before this, don't you think? Your little hole just needed taking care of. Made you act out."

There's a distant swell of anger in his head, but he's distracted by Mr. Stark's hand covering his. It unclenches his fingers from Mr. Stark's t-shirt and lays his hand flat. 

"Don't you want to thank me for showing you?" 

The finger teasing his asshole pushes more aggressively, and almost pops inside. Peter gasps out, "Thank you. Thank you."

Mr. Stark kisses his face. "That's sweet, baby, but the best apologies come with an action."

Mr. Stark slides Peter's hand down his chest, onto his jeans, until it's covering the bulge he's felt before. Just not this directly.

Peter doesn't realize he's clenched all his muscles til Mr. Stark says, "It's okay, just hands today. Just this, baby."

He forces himself relax. Then he makes himself feel Mr. Stark's cock through the denim. Peter knew this was coming, and today it's just hands. 

Mr. Stark reaches for his own fly and opens it, explaining, "Need to make a little room. Jesus, kid, you make me hot."

Peter reaches, tentatively, inside the spread denim, touching Mr. Stark through his boxers. It's so much…more. He can feel how hot Mr. Stark is, the dampness, the way his cock twitches at Peter's touch. 

Mr. Stark presses his face against the top of Peter's head and groans. "Thought about this for so long."

Peter might have asked about that, might have asked how long, exactly – when did Mr. Stark first see him? Where? Was it then? What about Peter made him –

But Mr. Stark takes his hand and plunges it into the humid confines of his underwear, helping Peter get a grip on his bare cock. Peter jerks in surprise as the tip of Mr. Stark's finger pops briefly inside his hole.

His hand clenches, and Mr. Stark throws his head back, hips arching up. "Ahh, honey. That's good. C'mon."

Peter flushes at how good he's making Mr. Stark feel. Throbs at how alive and foreign someone else's dick feels in his hand. He glances down and sees the way his arm disappears under the waistband of Mr. Stark's underwear, the press of his knuckles against thin fabric because his hand is _wrapped around a grown man's dick_. 

Saliva pools in his mouth and he swallows.

Mr. Stark shifts suddenly onto his side, cupping Peter's face and tipping it back up to meet his eyes. 

"Just like you'd play with your own, sweetheart, touch me." The angle's slightly more familiar now that they're facing each other, pressed close. He starts to stroke and Mr. Stark's eyelids fall, pupils going a little unfocused. "That's it, baby, just like that."

And then he takes Peter's mouth.

There's an overwhelmed, familiar feeling of too much to focus on at once, but he knows how to deal with this now. Mr. Stark gave him a job to do, so he'll do it. He keeps his attention on the movement of his hand, on making Mr. Stark feel good. Lets the rub of Mr. Stark's finger, the thrust of his tongue, the movement of their lips, all fade to the background. To be enjoyed, but not distracted by.

He lets Mr. Stark control his body like an empty doll, just so he can focus on making Mr. Stark come.

It takes longer than Peter ever imagined it would. His arm's sluggish and his hand is cramping by the time Mr. Stark's breath starts to hitch. One of Mr. Stark's hands is simply gripping his asscheek now, so hard that Peter's sure it's going to bruise, but the other joins Peter's efforts, mercifully, closing on top of his and speeding the movement up.

"Did so well, baby, so good, just a little longer – _Fuck_."

Mr. Stark's hips jerk as he makes a sticky mess of their hands, of his underwear. Peter watches him come with rapt attention. He feels exhausted and powerful and helpless all at once.

When Mr. Stark's breath slows down to normal, he pulls Peter's hand out of his shorts. Peter watches with a far-away feeling as his fingers and his palm and the back of his hand are licked clean by Mr. Stark's tongue. Peter's dick throbs Mr. Stark sucks on his fingers, tongue teasing between them to clean the creases.

"You did so well, sweetheart," Mr. Stark says. Then he pulls Peter into a kiss that's messy and salty, like their first. 

Peter could cry when a hand presses against his cock.

"Lay back, honey, you deserve something nice."

Peter lets himself be pushed on his back and stripped of his clothing, lets Mr. Stark shoulder between his legs and pin Peter's knees like he wants. He just lays there and looks, feeling a little bit detached, arms flung over his head. The one he was using hurts so much. 

He quickly forgets about it as his aching cock is engulfed in a hot, wet mouth.

He manages one good jag of his hips before they're pinned flat, and then he's helpless to do anything but writhe as Mr. Stark bobs – too fast for Peter to grasp a single thought. The sounds are kind of gross – a gagging noise that Peter only associates with bad things – but the wrongness of the noise makes everything better until he has to yank at his own hair to keep it from being too much. 

And then Mr. Stark nuzzles down, down til his nose is pressed to Peter's belly and it produces that wet meaty sound as throat muscles contract around his dick. He pants out a desperate cry and Mr. Stark sort of hums and that…Peter _feels_ around his cock, and he promptly comes so hard he misses the world moving around him for a while.

When he's back, Mr. Stark is cradling him close and petting down the shivers that are still running through his whole body.

"Wow," his mouth says.

Mr. Stark…there's no other word for it… _giggles_ , eyes crinkled in amusement. Peter wonders if this is a dream where he's imagining a Mr. Stark that is _not_ Mr. Stark.

"I'll take that as a rave review, thank you," Mr. maybe-Stark says. Then he kisses Peter, sweet and tender, until Peter can't move his lips anymore.

Whoever this not-Mr. Stark is, he doesn't leave. He stays for a while, making Peter feel safe and cared for, until Peter drifts off to sleep. He only has the vaguest sense of it when the man leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because some stories of this nature DO take a turn towards the romantic or consensual, I feel obligated to mention at this point that this is…not one of those. This story is told from Peter's point of view and he's becoming more and more unreliable as a narrator the more he adjusts. Anyway, tl;dr: Peter's not getting rescued and he's not going to reform Tony, so just, you know…set your expectations accordingly, lol. 
> 
> (I never used to spoil things like this, but then some people get Irate when you don't live up to the tropes, so I'll save us all that kind of heartache)


	9. Chapter 9

Peter doesn't see the note until after his shower the following morning. The handwriting is angular but legible, on a raggedly torn corner of a larger page.

_Hello, sweetheart. I forgot to tell you, I'll be away tomorrow. Just the one night this time, I promise. Follow your instructions when they arrive the next day, and you'll get a very pleasant treat._

Well that's…ominous? Promising? Vague? Peter's never been given "instructions" before that didn't come from Mr. Stark's mouth.

And now he has nothing to distract him from that thought for 24 hours. Great.

Peter stares at the note while eating his breakfast, because it's the only thing of interest in the entire room. By the time he's pushed the tray back through the slot, he's crawling out of his skin.

He decides to work out a little. He started doing that, once he moved in here and his meals got a little more substantial. There's so very little to do. He always hated the dumb routine of gym, though he was lucky because it came easy. Now he does all the stuff he hated voluntarily, just for something to occupy time and burn energy: jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, anything he can do with no equipment in very little space.

It never takes as long as he wishes it would.

Peter lays flat on the concrete, after, enjoying the feel of the cold concrete on his bare sweaty back. It's kind of nice, now that he has a mattress to relax on most of the time. 

Peter starts to think about how bad he desperately wants his life to be more than this, more than this tiny room with the bare essentials and nothing to do for twelve hours of his day. At least Mr. Stark spends a decent amount of time here, now.

Peter thinks about last night, and how nice Mr. Stark was. Because Peter did everything just right. He has to believe that if he keeps that up, he'll get out of this basement, eventually. He has to believe it or he'll go insane.

Mr. Stark introduced three new things last night. Does that mean their routine is accelerating? Or will they have a new holding pattern, now? That can't be it – not when the note mentioned "instructions" and a "treat," both of which imply even more additional things. 

It's fine. Peter's probably going to enjoy them. Or at least the second thing. If there's one thing Peter knows by now, it's that Mr. Stark believes in positive reinforcement.

And last night gave Peter hope that he'll enjoy anal sex and stuff. Peter knew it _could_ be enjoyable, obviously (being a gay teen who grew up on the internet), but he never knew for sure whether it would be enjoyable for _him_ (since the internet taught him some people don't like it). And even if he _could_ like it, that was no guarantee he'd like it with Mr. Stark.

But last night had felt good. Really good. And it hadn't even been about his prostate but his asshole itself, which…Peter had missed the memo somehow, that _that_ could feel good. He's pretty sure that if he hadn't needed to focus on getting Mr. Stark off, he could've come just from having his hole rubbed and humping Mr. Stark's leg like a horny, ill-mannered puppy.

Peter scrambles under the covers and pulls his boxer-briefs off. He's given up on pretending for the cameras. They see him in the bathroom, they see him with Mr. Stark. They know he masturbates, regardless. The blankets make him less self-conscious about it, but he doesn't try to conceal what he's doing. He tries not to care that they can tell.

He jacks his cock for a while first, then pulls up his knees and starts playing with his hole. It feels good, good enough to make him thrust up faster into his hand and bite his lip. Not quite as good as when Mr. Stark did it, though. Nothing he does by himself ever feels as good, anymore. Not when he knows he'll have better if he's patient. He doesn't jack off as much as he used to.

He lets his legs fall back to the bed and just strokes his cock, thinking about Mr. Stark. It's fucked up, but one of the reasons things are better with Mr. Stark is that Peter is…not scared, exactly, not anymore, but never quite sure what will happen. Peter has no control. 

If Mr. Stark weren't so nice…

Fuck, 'Mr. Stark' and 'nice' don't even belong in the same sentence, unless the sentence is something like, _Mr. Stark has a nice car_ , but that's wrong by way of massive understatement. At the same time, 'nice' is relative, and Mr. Stark has been nice, given his total control over Peter. Nothing would stop him from being…awful.

If Mr. Stark weren't so nice, he could have taken Peter that first day. Beat him up or had him beaten. He could've had men hold Peter down. Peter's seen Mr. Stark's men, some are big and all are mean, and they probably would have enjoyed watching Peter get put in his place. He made fun of a lot of them, and made them look like fools.

If Mr. Stark had wanted, they would have held Peter down happily. So he couldn't even move, and Peter would have tried because. Because it would be obvious what was about to happen. Bent face-down over a table and restrained, he would get it, and he'd be scared and wouldn't want it to happen. He would've screamed until they taped his mouth shut, and he would've kicked until they spread his legs and cuffed them to the table, and of course they could have tied him down completely, hands and stuff, but Mr. Stark would want them to see. He'd want Peter to know that they would see, while they kept him in place with bruising hands.

Peter moans, in his room alone, hand flying over his cock. So fucking turned on, it's insane.

And in that world, Peter would have never seen Mr. Stark in person, never talked to him, never touched him, never seen him laugh, and he would have been terrified when he walked into the room, explaining calmly what was happening to Peter and why. Maybe Peter would have tried to get a look, to see over his shoulder, but that would be against the men's orders and they'd pin his cheek against the table.

Mr. Stark would've needed to cut Peter's jeans open just to get access, because his feet would be spread too far to push his pants down. He'd cut Peter's underwear too, and Peter would freeze up, so terrified of getting cut with the knife.

Mr. Stark wouldn't touch Peter's hole, wouldn't really touch him at all. He'd get so little warning, just the unzipping sound of Mr. Stark's suit fly, and probably the sound of lube. Just for Mr. Stark's comfort, not for Peter's own. Then Peter would have felt the head of his cock pressing against him and would've sobbed, because he'd be scared, but before he could even try to thrash again, it would have thrust in, fast and rough. Not careful at all. 

Mr. Stark would have moaned, or maybe laughed, or made some smart remark that made his _men_ laugh at Peter. How this was what Peter was good for, or his ass was almost worth all of the trouble. Something. Peter would hardly even hear because he'd be so overwhelmed, getting fucked hard and fast by a man he hated. Getting fucked when he'd never been kissed. He'd be humiliated and it would hurt, but it would also feel good, really good, and he'd come on Mr. Stark's cock, and Mr. Stark would love that, would laugh and decide to keep him and –

Ah, Jesus, if that wasn't the most fucked up orgasm of Peter's life so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact, I *never* write explicit fantasies/masturbation this much (I don't even enjoy reading it, usually). It's just, you know, this way I get to have my "Mr. Stark uses finesse" kink and my "Mr. Stark uses brute force" kink in the same fic, lol.


	10. Chapter 10

Peter gets his "instructions" after breakfast the next day.

He's just pushed his tray back through, when suddenly, plastic bag full of _stuff_ is passed right back. 

It takes Peter a few minutes and a first pass of the product instructions to understand.

 _Oh_. It's an enema kit.

He drops the parts he'd been holding immediately, even though Peter knows they must be new or at least sterilized. 

He leaves them where they are and lays on the bed for a while, just staring at the ceiling and thinking. Obviously whatever they're doing is…more involved, tonight, and Mr. Stark wants him clean. That…makes sense. He'll probably like it. He liked the last thing, and Mr. Stark had called it a 'treat.' He's never pretended something Peter disliked was a favor or reward, so Peter's pretty sure it's not bullshit.

But Peter knows just enough about enemas to know that they're gross and he doesn't want to do that.

He reaches under the pillow where he stuffed Mr. Stark's note and reads it. _Follow your instructions when they arrive tomorrow, and you'll get a very pleasant treat._

Peter knows, however Mr. Stark phrased it, that following instructions is in no way optional. If he doesn't, he'll be punished, or at the least, have something he likes taken away. Clothing, blankets, Mr. Stark's attention. He doesn't think this would land him in his empty cell, simply because Mr. Stark wants progress, not to put them at square one. But still, it would suck. Whatever he took would be to make Peter regret not doing what he was told, and Mr. Stark is very good at making him regret things.

And if he does do what he's asked, he'll get a treat.

There's really no question that he'll do it. He lets himself pretend and procrastinate for a while, though.

Then he sucks it up and reads the instructions.

*

"I hear you've been a good boy," Mr. Stark says when he arrives that night. 

Peter chooses not to think about who watched him douche as he lets himself be pulled into Mr. Stark's arms. 

Mr. Stark kisses his cheek. "Thank you for doing that. We're going to have fun tonight."

Peter nods, and they settle in for dinner. Mr. Stark is talking, like he often is – Peter doesn't have anything in his life to relay…talking about Before is too painful, and talking about now usually seems dangerous. Mr. Stark is happy to carry the conversation anyway.

Tonight, it's a little harder to hold his tongue, though, for one specific reason. Peter waits for a pause before he asks the thing he's obsessing on. "Mr. Stark, are we going to… Are you going to fuck me tonight?"

Mr. Stark studies closely. "How would you feel about that if I did?"

Peter can't quite meet his eyes. He's not sure of the safe answer, so he shrugs. 

Eventually, Mr. Stark says, "It seems like you'd enjoy it more if we waited a little while. Does that sound right?"

Peter feels his muscles go lax. "Yes, sir."

"Then the answer is no. I'm not going to fuck you tonight."

Peter nods, and goes back to picking through his food. He just doesn't get why – 

"You can ask another question, Peter. Just be respectful."

When Peter sneaks a peek, Mr. Stark is focused on his plate. "I'm just, I guess, wondering what you get out of waiting."

Mr. Stark arches his eyebrow and puts his empty plate aside. "That's a fair question."

Peter waits. 

"There are some jobs that can be accomplished with a blunt instrument. There are some that require more delicate tools. If you try to use the first job's tool for the second, you won't get it done faster, you'll just make a mess."

Peter can kind of appreciate the bald practicality of that explanation. It also matches his assumption, which is a relief.

"Besides," Mr. Stark says, taking his hand and kissing the knuckles. His facial hair tickles. "I think you underestimate how much I enjoy watching you blush through every new step. It's a fairly pleasant pastime all on its own."

Peter blushes _now_ , half ashamed of himself and half flattered. When Mr. Stark gives his hand a tug, Peter climbs into his lap…he was done with dinner anyway. 

They…well, they make out for a while, which isn't a first but is a rarity. Mr. Stark is back in a suit again, like he's never heard of jeans. His hands don't encourage Peter to rub against him, so Peter doesn't. He just lets himself be kissed and enjoys the gentle touching for a while.

He tilts his head back and shudders when Mr. Stark rubs his beard on Peter's throat before nipping and sucking. 

"You're such a special boy, Peter," he murmurs, and Peter pulls him back up for a kiss. Mr. Stark smiles against his mouth.

"Okay. Let me get rid of these dishes – you take your clothes off for me."

Peter does, then watches as Mr. Stark removes his suit jacket and tie and hands them to someone out of sight. He rolls his sleeves up as he returns to the bed. Unbuttons his collar.

Mr. Stark looks up at Peter's face and chuckles. "I think I've accidentally programmed you to enjoy me half out of my suit."

Peter blushes and accepts a kiss. 

"Okay. Stretch out face down today, baby." Mr. Stark grabs a pillow and throws it midway down the mattress. "Hips here."

Peter settles as instructed. He makes himself relax as Mr. Stark half-climbs above him and starts to kiss weirdly sensitive places. The skin under Peter's ear, beneath his jaw, between his shoulder blades. His beard brushes softly. Down Peter's spine, on his ribs, the hollow of his waist. On Peter's tailbone gentle and shudder-inducing. On his left cheek, then below the curve of his right. High, high up on his inner thigh. The back of his knee. His hamstrings. 

It's all unhurried, but it's not very long before he does what Peter was realizing he would: spread Peter's cheeks with both hands and expose his hole.

It shocks a small sound out of him, even though he expected it. Another, more embarrassing cry when Mr. Stark spits right onto his asshole and rubs it around. 

"Look how pretty and clean, all for me. I'm so proud of you, baby."

Peter turns his face down into the pillow before he turns tomato red.

He gets a light smack on his ass from Mr. Stark at that. "Don't hide your face, sweetheart. I want to see and hear everything you do."

"I wasn't hiding my face, I was smothering myself," Peter mumbles, and Mr. Stark lets out a sharp laugh, nipping Peter's butt with his teeth.

Then Peter feels the disconcerting sensation of thumbs prying his asshole apart as Mr. Stark leans in and starts to lick him out. It takes roughly 3.4 seconds for Peter to moan and start humping the pillow.

Mr. Stark chuckles, and a shudder races up Peter's spine.

If he thought the dry friction of a fingertip felt good, this is – this is – 

Mr. Stark kisses and licks and _sucks_ at Peter's asshole, and then he pushes the soft wet muscle _inside_. Peter presses back into the attention, fists white-knuckled, twisted in the sheets. 

And the whole time, Mr. Stark is making these _noises_ , too, like Peter's the tastiest treat he's ever had. Peter bites down on the meat of his thumb and moans.

The feeling of Mr. Stark's finger slipping inside him is unmistakable for the soft, slick press of his tongue. There's more friction – not too much, just…so much more – and his finger goes deeper. The swell of his knuckles makes Peter want…

The first few passes of that finger over his prostate make Peter stiffen and go still with uncertainty. It feels…odd, like nothing Peter's ever felt before. Not _bad_ , not at all, just not exactly comfortable.

The lapping of a tongue around those fingers is distracting enough to take his mind off it. Soon he's back to riding the pillow and panting into his arm.

And then a second finger presses in, and (although Peter can't pinpoint exactly when) the prostate stimulation starts to feel _good_.

Peter's back arches, offering up his ass for more of _that_. " _Oh_. Oh, Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark…"

Teeth scrape over his ass cheek and he shivers. 

"Oh, fuck – please. Fuck – "

"God _damn_ , but I love the way you sound, sweetheart."

Peter spreads his knees apart and thrusts against the pillow. "Mr. Stark. I'm…I want – "

"You want my dick, baby, that's what you _want_. It's the only thing this hungry hole actually needs, but you're gonna have to beg for it. In the meantime…"

Peter _groans_ as a third finger pushes in, beyond words, working his hole back on Mr. Stark's fingers. He has to brace himself when Mr. Stark goes from thrusting a steady rhythm to…banging his fingers into Peter's body, rough and fast. His fingertips strike Peter's prostate and punch out this pathetic, mewling little sound on every pass.

"That's it, honey. Just take it like the sweet boy I've always known you were. Jesus, listen to how bad you want it. Can't wait to fill you up. Fuck you til you drool."

Peter feels his balls draw up and bites down on a blanket, almost unable to take the feeling swelling inside. 

"Are you gonna come now, baby? Gonna cream all over your pillow as Daddy fingerbangs your hole?"

Oh, _God_. Peter does. He comes his brains out, grinding his cock into his pillow and clamping down on Mr. Stark's relentless fingers that fuck him til he's practically blind.

They only stop fucking into him when he's lax and whimpering for mercy.


	11. Chapter 11

The next day, Mr. Stark doesn't come in.

He stands in the open doorway of Peter's room and says, "I want to try something different today. Let's take a little field trip."

Peter stares. "Field trip?"

Mr. Stark's lips curve into a small smile. "Mmhmm. Up to my penthouse. We can have a nice meal, maybe some wine, enjoy comfortable furniture that's not 6 inches from the floor. What do you say?"

Peter feels a little bit speechless, acutely aware that he's gaping like an idiot. Obviously, he's wanted this, hoped for this, dreamed of this, but…it always felt so far away. A distant mirage of a goal, with a vast and deadly desert sitting in the way.

Being offered it this abruptly feels like a trick, except Mr. Stark doesn't play tricks like this. He asks a lot, but he doesn't set Peter up for failure. So when Mr. Stark's eyebrow starts to lift in impatience, Peter blurts, "Yes, yes please, I'd love that."

He's given a genuinely pleased smile, then, and a beckoning finger. "Good boy."

Peter pops to his feet and rushes to stand in front of Mr. Stark, practically vibrating at being this close to an open door. A warm hand cups his neck, thumb stroking his carotid. Peter knows his heart is pounding. Mr. Stark's eyes are soft but serious on Peter's.

"I think this goes without saying, but I understand the temptation that you're facing, so I'm going to say it: you _will not_ be able to get out of this building successfully, so don't even try. It's not physically possible for you to leave without being intercepted, and if you attempt it, I'll make sure you regret it for a very long time. Do you believe me?"

Peter swallows, insides jumping. "Yes, sir."

"Can you be good for me?"

Peter nods, unable to speak around the lump in his throat.

"Good! Then let's go."

Mr. Stark adjusts his grip to the nape of Peter's neck and guides him out the door. The hallway seems to stretch out forever in front of them, making him feel just a little sick, and Peter wonders, as they pass a handful of cell doors, which one was his. He doesn't…he can't remember how far they went when Mr. Stark gave him his current room. But there are several doors like his, which…makes sense.

"I don't have any other guests down here," Mr. Stark says, to answer the question he isn't asking. 

His fingers stroke lightly over Peter's skin and he shivers.

They're clearly in a subbasement. The elevator Mr. Stark guides him to is waiting for them, doors ajar, and the sensation of going up feels foreign and strange. After two floors, the doors open with a ding, revealing a nearly-identical hallway, the walls and floor still bare cement. On this level, though, there are normal doors. Still creepy, but more like an ordinary commercial basement.

After a short way down the hall and one right turn, he's on another elevator. This one is…really nice. It has a padded bench inside and not a single button. The doors close, and it just starts to go up.

Peter stumbles a little at the unexpected speed.

The elevator doesn't stop, just ascends and ascends for what feels like a long time. And Peter realizes, with a nervous stomach, where they must be.

A tall building with a penthouse where Mr. Stark lives. Stark Tower. Which means there are thousands of people working in this building, or…are during the day. And not a single one can help him, even if they wanted to.

He had wondered. Peter had wondered if he could be in this building, but he'd tried not to think about it. He always figured knowing he was so close to help would make everything worse. He's pretty sure that he was right.

The elevator decelerates so slowly as they approach their floor that Peter feels startled when the doors open in front of him. And when they do, the amount of space that's out there is –

Peter actually finds himself shrinking back, retreating a step until he hits Mr. Stark's chest. 

Mr. Stark gives his nape an affectionate squeeze and presses a kiss to Peter's temple. "I know, angel, it's a lot. It's a lot, right now. I'm right here."

Peter's never had, like, anxiety. He's had nerves, like everyone. Class presentations, or when he liked a guy. But this tight-chested feeling when he's gently propelled forward into what feels like a vast open space… This is new.

He's actually grateful when Mr. Stark tucks him close, but pissed at himself, too. He knows that there's nothing to be scared of. But it's…it's a lot, just like Mr. Stark said. Not just the space, but the walls of windows at every side. The sight of Central Park. The natural light. 

The…the stuff. The furniture and the art and the…just, stuff. Stuff, everywhere. Peter's sure he'd be gobsmacked by how expensive everything is, normally, but right now, it's just the wealth of _things_ that dazes him, after months with so little to look at.

That might be why it takes Peter so long to notice they're not alone. It doesn't register until Mr. Stark stops right in front of the guy.

Peter gasps in surprise and is held in place by Mr. Stark; the man looks up and meets his eyes.

They're gray-blue and flat, pinning Peter momentarily.

Peter's acutely aware, all of a sudden, that he's only clad in a sweatshirt and a pair of boxer-briefs that leave exactly nothing to the imagination.

He feels himself slump when the man looks away, and all of a sudden realizes Mr. Stark has been talking and Peter wasn't listening.

And now he's looking at Peter expectantly. Thank god he doesn't look angry when Peter stutters, "Sorry, what?"

"I was just saying Bucky-bear here isn't normally my chef, but he's a friend – " Peter startles at the abrupt snort from the man, but Mr. Stark barrels on " – and _invaluable employee_ who happens to make excellent goulash. I thought you'd like something hearty."

Peter nods, just on general principle – has he ever had goulash? – and lets himself be guided onto a stool without any resistance.

"I need to step away for a second, you just sit and keep Bucky company while he cooks for us, okay?"

Peter feels a swell of abject panic at the prospect of abandonment and turns wide eyes on Mr. Stark. All he sees is the back of the man's head as he walks away. He takes deep breaths and turns halfway back, not quite facing the total stranger three feet away.

Now that Peter's not distracted, he notices the skill with which the man is chopping vegetables, knife moving dizzyingly fast over the food. And when he notices the knife, he notices the fingers perilously close to being sliced alongside dinner. The fingers that…the fingers that are metal.

Peter sucks in another gasp, and blue eyes flick up briefly to assess him. Peter's so glad they don’t linger for long.

 _James Barnes_ is cooking their dinner. James Barnes, Mr. Stark's top enforcer, is cooking their dinner. The terror of the underworld, better known as the Winter Soldier, is cooking Peter dinner.

The man is infamous for his knife skills, but that infamy doesn't apply to food.

It hits Peter suddenly with absurdity, and he starts to laugh. This time, Barnes's eyes linger. Peter registers the nickname Mr. Stark used for him and laughs harder. He sounds unhinged, he's aware of that, thanks, but he can't stop.

When Barnes suddenly starts speaking in a slew of unfriendly…Russian? That shuts Peter up.

It's not until a warm body presses up against his back and pulls him close that Peter realizes Barnes wasn't speaking to him. Mr. Stark answers – also in Russian – as Peter sinks back in relief.

He waits until Barnes moves to the sink to whisper, "You call the Winter Soldier ' _Bucky bear_ '??"

Mr. Stark smirks and says (not quietly _at all_ ), "Sure do, and he loves it – don't you, Bucky-bear? Makes him feel all warm and fuzzy."

Barnes mutters something under his breath by the sink, and Mr. Stark barks a laugh, then a comeback in Russian.

"Well," Mr. Stark says, "since you two need no introduction, apparently, let's go get comfortable, hm?"

*

The size of Mr. Stark's space is still making Peter nervous, so he's happy to curl sideways into Mr. Stark's lap on the sofa and be distracted with a kiss. Mr. Stark's hands slide up under his sweatshirt and clutch at his skin, and Peter shifts, restless. He forgets, for a moment, where they are. Who's nearby.

There's a clatter in the kitchen, and he rips away, wide-eyed.

Mr. Stark presses a wet kiss to his ear and Peter's dick throbs. "Would you like some wine, sweetheart?"

Peter's never been drunk, but before his uncle died, he and Aunt May would have friends over. Sometimes Peter would get a sip of wine or beer. Disgusting, but he remembers the warm, relaxing pull from even that much. Maybe…maybe it will make him a little less jumpy.

"Yes, please."

Mr. Stark shifts him aside and walks off, and Peter hears him murmuring something around the corner. The sound of Mr. Barnes answering. In Russian. Does he speak English?

Mr. Stark returns with a glass that's much fuller than May ever poured for herself. He sits next to Peter and presses the glass to his bottom lip, tsking Peter's hands away and tipping gently when Peter opens up. 

It's still gross, but Peter doesn't do more than shudder just a bit. Mr. Stark waits a moment before dispensing a second swallow, then reaches past Peter to set the glass on the side table. A moment later, Peter's back in Mr. Stark's lap, a tongue teasing between his lips.

The wine goes to his head really quickly – things go warm and soft. The kitchen noise becomes a distant concern. Mr. Stark hums happily as Peter presses close, the possessive hand on his ass making him breathe a little faster.

His breath catches when a gravelly voice speaks from close behind him, but Mr. Stark holds him in place, breaking away long enough to say, " _Da_ ," before pulling Peter back in.

When he finally lets Peter go, they're alone and the penthouse is quiet.

"I should let you eat up before it's cold," Mr. Stark murmurs, reaching for a bowl on the side table and handing it to Peter. He doesn't produce one for himself.

"You aren't eating?"

"Mm. Maybe later. I just want to sit here and enjoy the warm boy in my lap."

Peter's face heats further than it already was from the wine, and he fixes his attention on what looks like stew – really amazing stew, from the smell of it. He scoops some into his mouth and immediately moans. "Oh God, this is so good."

Mr. Stark chuckles and watches as Peter slurps it down, pressing a kiss beneath Peter's ear and then nipping his earlobe. "Do I need to be jealous of the goulash, baby?"

His breath is hot on Peter's skin and Peter's dick stiffens up. 

"Eat, eat," Mr. Stark urges, even as he slips his hand between Peter's legs, palming and massaging his cock.

The rest of his meal is torture. The longer it goes on, the more distracting Mr. Stark seems to become. But he's insistent that Peter finishes his meal while he plays with Peter's body.

Peter is so very horny by the time Mr. Stark takes the bowl out of his hands. He clutches Mr. Stark's lapel and thrusts up into his groping. 

"Mm, look at you, desperate slutty thing."

"Mr. Stark – "

"I do like the look of you here, where you belong. With all my things. Too bad I don't have time to take advantage, tonight."

Mr. Stark withdraws his hand and presses a chaste kiss to Peter's temple. Leaves him panting and confused on the verge of orgasm. "What…"

"Before we head downstairs, I want to show you something," Mr. Stark says, as though nothing's happened. 

Peter's head spins. "I…"

He stumbles to his feet when Mr. Stark nudges him off his lap and stands. Follows helpless as Mr. Stark takes his hand and leads him to a door off the main room.

It opens into a bedroom that's too sparse to be the master, but still practically luxurious to Peter's eyes. He's distracted from his arousal at the sight of a huge bed laden with pillows and blankets, a bookshelf full of well-loved paperbacks, even a desk with paper and pens. One door on the far side is open to an en-suite bathroom, and there's another which has to be a closet. One whole wall faces the outside of the building with floor-to-ceiling windows. Since the sun has gone down, the city sparkles at them from below.

Peter turns to look at Mr. Stark and notices that this door locks from the outside. He swallows down excitement and says, "Is this mine?"

"I hope it will be," Mr. Stark says. "But you have to earn it first."

"How do I earn it?" Peter asks immediately. He can hear the desperation in his own voice but doesn't give a damn. Mr. Stark looks pleased.

"It's not so hard. You just need to tell me one thing about yourself you don't want me to know."

Peter stares at him, feeling his stomach sink. Anything he doesn't want Mr. Stark to know is something he's really scared to tell. Mr. Stark's mouth curves like he knows it.

"You don't have to do anything right now. Give it some thought. It's time to get you back downstairs."

Peter feels dazed as Mr. Stark leads him to the elevator, stomach churning at the knowledge that he's going back to his hole. To the place that seemed so adequate an hour ago but now feels like another cell.

Mr. Stark presses him against the doorframe when he drops him off, kissing him deeply before ushering him inside. "Be a good boy," he says, and winks.

Then Peter's alone again in the cold.


	12. Chapter 12

Peter hardly sleeps that night, so caught up in considering Mr. Stark's request that his brain can't take a break. 

The real problem is he already knows what secret he's going to tell, if he wants that room.

And he does. He desperately, desperately wants that room. Wants to leave the subbasement and never come back. Never give Mr. Stark a _reason_ to banish him.

The problem is, it has to be a _real_ secret. Peter already knows that Mr. Stark won't accept a half-measure. Whatever he tells Mr. Stark has to be a sacrifice – something he really, truly doesn't want Mr. Stark to know.

The other problem is, Mr. Stark already knows every detail of his previous life. He drops little mentions into conversation often enough. Peter's sure he knows everything significant. Any secrets left from _before_ won't be enough to win him more freedom. 

Which only leaves secrets that Peter has now. The choices are few – since he's constantly monitored, the only secrets Peter has are the ones that have stayed in his head.

That leaves three things Peter doesn't want Mr. Stark to know: his thoughts of escape, the hatred that sometimes still simmers inside him. And his fantasies.

Peter doesn't think Mr. Stark would be shocked by the first two but shoving them in his face seems…unwise. So does sharing his fantasies. Peter doesn't want to bite off more than he can chew, but at least that route seems less likely to end in pain or death. Peter doesn't think…Peter doesn't think Mr. Stark would act on any of them without making Peter feel good at the same time. He's pretty sure he's safe from that.

But there's no guarantee, and that…keeps him up all night.

*

Peter finally drops into a deep, exhausted sleep after the day lights have come on. He sleeps for most of the day, which is actually good – less time to get nervous and doubt himself.

Mr. Stark shows up without dinner in his hands. From the doorway, he asks, "Have you decided?"

Peter nods, licking his bottom lip nervously, unable to look as Mr. Stark comes in and closes the door. Peter waits until he's joined on the mattress, and then…he can't speak. The doubt and fear reach up and choke him.

"Well?" Mr. Stark says. 

"Sorry," Peter gasps out. "I know what I want to tell you, I'm just. Scared."

Mr. Stark contemplates this a moment, forcing Peter's head up and studying Peter's face. "Are you going to tell me you've disobeyed or defied me since you got here? In a way I don't already know about."

Peter's stomach cramps. "No."

"Then you have nothing to be afraid of."

Peter's heart is beating so fast, he can hardly catch his breath. Mr. Stark lets go, and he ducks his head. "If I – if I tell you something I think about, I'm afraid you'll think I want it."

Peter waits out the silence as long as he can, then he has to glance up to judge Mr. Stark's mood. There's a spark of naked interest in his expression. When Peter makes eye contact, he says, "You have my word I won't assume that."

Peter closes his eyes and takes a breath. Leaving them closed seems like the only way to admit this. "Sometimes…sometimes I imagine that you're…meaner."

All Peter can hear is his own nervous breathing, and he struggles with what to say next that isn't…what to say next that he can imagine saying out loud.

Mr. Stark must think that he's done, because he asks, "Meaner in what context, Pete?" 

He sounds like he knows the answer to the question. He also sounds really turned on. Peter's stomach churns with the uncertainty of whether that's a good thing. 

Still, there's no way around saying it. "With like. Sex, and stuff?"

There's a beat, and then Mr. Stark declares "Let's get comfortable." 

Peter looks up to watch him ditch his jacket and tie. 

"Mr. Stark?" 

He said…he gave his word that…

"Just so you don't feel so self-conscious," Mr. Stark says. "You'll feel better if you know I'm not staring at you, right?"

"Right," Peter says, because it's true, even if he's still nervous. 

He lets Mr. Stark arrange them on the bed, curled up comfy on their sides with Mr. Stark as the big spoon. It feels nice to be held, and Mr. Stark's right, it's easier to relax. 

Mr. Stark presses a kiss to the nape of his neck and pulls them snug together. Peter's mouth is dry, and when he swallows, it feels loud. Mr. Stark's hand slips under his hoodie and rests over his heart. His touch is cold at first, but it warms up. 

"So, sometimes you think about me being mean in bed," Mr. Stark says quietly. "Is it like a nightmare, or a fantasy?"

He still sounds like he knows Peter's answer, which is the reason Peter can admit, "Like a fantasy."

Mr. Stark exhales. "Do you touch yourself when you think about this, Pete?"

Peter shudders, partly from the brush of Mr. Stark's beard against his nape and partly because "Yeah. S-sometimes I'm touching myself and it pops into my head, sometimes I think about it and I have to…have to…"

"Stroke your little cock?" Mr. Stark says, and nips at Peter's ear. 

"Yeah. That."

Mr. Stark's hand slides away from Peter's heart and into his boxer-briefs, taking the hard-on Peter shouldn't have in his hand. "How mean am I in these fantasies, sweetheart?"

"You're not – you're not – you don't touch me like this. You make fun of me and make me do things, and sometimes…"

Peter squirms as Mr. Stark's thumb strokes the head of his cock. "Sometimes what, baby?"

Peter shakes his head, not wanting to say, and Mr. Stark chuckles. "It's cute that you're worried about putting ideas in my head, honey, like there's anything you could come up with I haven't considered. Or gotten off to."

Mr. Stark is hard against Peter's ass. His breath is hot against Peter's neck.

"I'm just…I'm really grateful you haven't –"

Mr. Stark's next words come out short and cold. "You're welcome. Stop testing my patience." He seems to stop and gather himself, and after, he sounds fine again, patient. "I gave my word, didn't I, sweetheart? Now, why don't you tell me the last fantasy you had."

Mr. Stark did promise, and Peter can't test his patience. "It…it was, you fucked me on the first day that we met."

Peter feels a smile against his skin, and the hand on his cock starts to move again. He relaxes. 

"In the concrete cell?"

"No…no, it was. I don't know. A room with a table. Men were h-holding me down – "

"While I fucked you?"

Maybe it's how turned on Mr. Stark sounds, but the telling suddenly gets easier. "Yeah. Yeah, they. I mean they held me down first, before you came in. I couldn't even see you. I was scared."

Mr. Stark kisses his neck. "Course you were. Sweet boy, at the mercy of a bad man. You must've known what was coming. They were holding you down on the table?"

"Yeah, bent…bent over."

"So that tight little ass was on display. Gorgeous. Did I say anything?"

"You said. You told me that you were going to fuck me. That I was going to prove I was good for more than causing you a headache."

Mr. Stark breathes hot against his ear, hand speeding up on Peter's cock. "And then what, baby?"

"Then, you took a knife and cut my jeans and underwear off, and I could hear you putting lube on your…self, and then you just…"

Mr. Stark's teeth bear down hard on the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. "Took your cherry with no prep, while my men held you down?" 

Peter thrashes just a bit, feeling the ghost of what could've been. "Yes!" 

"I would've made you love it, even then. I would have wrecked your hole and made you scream."

A sound tears itself from Peter's throat. It's not a protest. 

"Is that how you imagined it too, sweetheart? Did you come on my dick in front of everyone, even after I was mean and rough and used you like a come-sock?"

Peter jerks, cries, and jizzes all over Mr. Stark's fist.

It takes him a long time to catch his breath.

Mr. Stark wipes his hand off on the sheets and wraps Peter up in his arms while he comes back down. It feels good – even better with the reassurances Mr. Stark murmurs against his ear.

Eventually, Peter feels like he has to add, "I like that you're nice to me." He hates his own pleading tone, like he's begging Mr. Stark to believe him.

He doesn't resist when Mr. Stark pulls him onto his back so he can see Peter's face.

Mr. Stark strokes Peter's cheek, looking fond and soft, before leaning in for a kiss. "I know, baby. Fantasies like that don't mean you want actual cruelty."

Peter stares. Mostly because he's not sure why Mr. Stark is saying that. "What do they mean?"

"Well. Different things for different people. But for you," Mr. Stark strokes through his hair, eyes wandering up like he's admiring Peter's brain right through his skull. "For you, they're adaptive. You're taking the scariest what-ifs of your life and making them less scary by finding pleasure in them."

Mr. Stark looks so pleased by this fact, and Peter is suddenly exhausted. Sometimes Mr. Stark's kindness can be worse than his threats. He finds himself admitting, "You never pretend… When I ask, you're always so open about your motives. Or mine. It seems like you'd want to… I don't understand why you do it."

"You're a very smart boy, Peter." Mr. Stark still looks warm and pleased with him. "You're brilliant and you're curious and you like learning. You knew pretty quickly what my game was, I know that you did. Lying or pretending it was something else wouldn't have worked. Better to be honest. You respect honest."

Peter has to look away to swallow the lump in his throat, unsure how to deal with the way Mr. Stark says all that. It sounds…it sounds like he actually _likes_ Peter.

"Are you… Did I earn the room upstairs?" he asks, needing to know.

Mr. Stark presses a kiss to his forehead. "And then some. Let's go up and get dinner, then you can settle in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've ever wondered whether writers actually do an evil cackle while they're writing super fucked up things...the answer is yes lol


	13. Chapter 13

Peter doesn't see Mr. Stark for the next three days. He knows he's not being punished, but no one tells him where Mr. Stark is. 

It's not…it's not as bad as it was in the subbasement, being alone. He sees Mr. Barnes three times a day for meal delivery (no tray slot in this door), though the man doesn't speak and ignores Peter the one time he asks where Mr. Stark is.

There are also his books. Having something to preoccupy his mind helps a lot, and Peter's grateful that Mr. Stark obviously selected every last one with Peter's interests in mind. Some of them he's read before, but they tend to be favorites that Peter has mentioned. It's nice. Comforting. Thoughtful.

In the end, Peter's almost glad for the alone time. It's embarrassing, but Peter finds he can't stay out in the bedroom too long. On the first night, the glow of the city illuminates walls that are way too far apart and make Peter…insecure, unsafe. He hates himself a little as he drags his bedding into the closet and builds a little fort. 

He doesn't close the door, though. He falls asleep with it open just a crack.

During the day, it's even worse. The room is so big and bright – Peter knows that it's not. It's normal. Bigger than his bedroom at home, yeah, but not _that_ big. It's just him.

He spends more of those three days in the closet than the bedroom. He's glad Mr. Stark doesn't see it. Then again, Mr. Barnes doesn't seem surprised at all when Peter pops out of the closet to retrieve his food every day. Peter's not sure if that's because the behavior's expected or because he's monitored here, too. He doesn't see a camera.

On the second day, he leaves the closet long enough to take a bath. Not just a shower, but a long, hot bath. It feels like the first time in months that his _bones_ have been warm. He's reluctant to get out, repeatedly draining water away and refilling with hot to prolong the feeling.

On the third day, Peter uses the paper from the desk to write a letter to Aunt May. Nothing…nothing about what his life is like here, just how much he loves her and stuff. How sorry he is that he left her alone. He stops after the tears start to fall, afraid of letting himself cry. He'd probably never stop.

On the fourth day, Mr. Stark returns with a grin, and gathers Peter in for a long hug. Saying, low and sweet, how much Peter was missed. How good it is to hold him again.

Peter doesn't ask where he's been. If the man simply chose not to visit, he doesn't want to know.

*

"Mr. Stark?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

They're pressed together on Peter's bed, under the covers. Mr. Stark showed up in sweats and suggested they pick back up with Return of the King. It's been a while. It feels good to have this, to be held and feel/hear Mr. Stark's voice…be allowed to cling as long as he wants. Mr. Stark doesn't seem to be in a rush for anything else.

So Peter feels safe enough to admit, "I, um. I wrote a letter to Aunt May."

The thumb smoothing back and forth against Peter's spine pauses, and Mr. Stark lays the book down, open on his chest. "Did you, now?"

"I mean, I didn't…I didn't…there was a pen and paper, and – "

"You're not in trouble for using what I gave you," Mr. Stark says, and Peter's rapid pulse slows. Just a little. Because…

"I was wondering…I didn't say anything about…anything. You can read it? It just talks about how I love her and I'm sorry and stuff. I'm all she had left. She…" Peter swallows down the lump in his throat. "I can't imagine what it's like for her, thinking I might be dead. If you mailed it…like, from somewhere else, that's a thing, right? So the postmark isn't New York? If you mailed it, at least she would know that I'm still alive."

Mr. Stark is quiet for a long time – probably just a minute or two, but it feels like eternity. Peter knows he isn't mad, because he's still petting Peter with affection. He's on pins and needles anyway, waiting for a verdict.

"If you want to send her a letter, I'll make sure that it gets to her," Mr. Stark says slowly. "But…you should consider whether that would actually be a kindness."

"What…?"

"I've had her under light surveillance, just in case. She wasn't well at first. She was running herself ragged, looking for you. She wasn't eating, wasn't sleeping. Almost lost her job. I don't know that she's given you up for dead, but she has, more or less, returned to regular life. Grieving, but getting through it. A little hope can be a dangerous thing, Peter. Especially if it sends her on a goose chase, states away. No matter what, she won't find you."

Peter's heart aches. He tries not to cry, burying his face against Mr. Stark's chest and taking deep breaths. It's amazing how comforting and familiar that scent is.

"Am I ever going to see her again?" he asks, muffled.

Mr. Stark presses a kiss to the top of his head. "That depends a little on you, baby. But I can't let you go out in public before you're 18. After that, no one can take you away because you'll tell anyone who asks that you're with me voluntarily. But before that, I won't risk it."

Peter's torn in two. Someday, Mr. Stark will let him see May and Ned, though he'll have to lie. At the same time, eighteen feels…so far away. Forever from now. Peter's been here three months, and it feels so long. He has two and a half YEARS left, at least.

And that whole time, Aunt May would be looking. Mr. Stark's right, it's better that she thinks he's really gone. Dead, or just lost to her. Letting her know that he's out there, thinking of her would be…cruel.

"Should I have Bucky send your letter?" Mr. Stark asks. He sounds sincere, like he'd do it if Peter really wanted.

"No," Peter says miserably. "I can't put her through that."

Mr. Stark puts aside the book and gathers Peter up in both arms, rocking him just a little. Peter tries hard not to cry. "I think that's the right choice, for her. But I'm sorry it hurts you so much."

Mr. Stark doesn't comment when Peter's breath goes a little bit shuddery. But he does say, "Two years isn't such a long time, Pete. Someday, this will just feel like home. The time will fly by."

Peter doesn't know whether he wants that or not. But for the first time, it sounds like his best option.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> under the subject of "wow, no wonder it took you so long!!" we now have a title. we're at chapter 14, so it was a little like...commit already, you coward.

For the next few days, Mr. Stark comes to visit him every evening and they read and talk and lay together. Peter's still upset, still…grieving with the knowledge that Mr. Stark's never going to let him go. He knew that, he _knew_ Mr. Stark wouldn't let him loose alive, but there was knowing, and there was hearing Mr. Stark lay it out in so many words: you're trapped here until you're eighteen, then maybe I'll let you leave the building, but I'm never letting you leave me.

It just…makes it so fucking real.

Mr. Stark doesn't even hint at sex, and Peter doesn't notice for almost a week. He just…sex isn't on his mind at all. He wakes up with morning wood sometimes, but he isn't _horny_. It goes away soon after he pees.

When he wakes up from a sex dream one morning, Peter realizes how patient Mr. Stark's been. He jacks off, no fantasies, but after, he decides that tonight he'll let Mr. Stark know that he's ready to do stuff again.

Sex with Mr. Stark – as nerve-wracking as it sometimes is – is the only thing that makes up for all this. He might as well enjoy it.

*

"Mr. Stark?" he asks over dinner. They're out in the penthouse's common area for the first time since he moved. Peter's grown comfortable with his bedroom, now, and Mr. Stark wants to acclimate him to the larger space. It feels a little wrong still, but Peter can ignore it. A sip or two of Mr. Stark's scotch helps.

"Yeah, Pete."

"I wanted to tell you thanks for being patient with me, this week."

Mr. Stark studies him for a moment. "You're very welcome."

Peter can't quite return the eye contact when he says, "Can we, like, make out and stuff after dinner?"

Mr. Stark gives him a warm, crooked smile. "I'd love that."

"Okay," Peter says. "Good. That's…good."

*

Peter still thinks alcohol tastes like crap, but he's discovering that he prefers scotch to wine. Not because it tastes better. It just takes less to work. To make his thoughts go warm and slow and simple. 

Plus, there's something nice about sharing Mr. Stark's glass. At dinner, Mr. Stark passed it over with an amused smirk the first time, and laughed a little when Peter started coughing over the first sip. But he kept doling it out. 

Now, into the evening, Peter's definitely feeling the effects. Sort of…floating. It feels nice, after the misery of the week. It feels nicer when he's in Mr. Stark's lap, kissing and grinding. He doesn't get distracted, doesn't worry. Just gets to feel. Feel the pleased, humming sounds Mr. Stark makes as they kiss. The way his fingers sink into Peter's ass as he helps Peter thrust against him. 

When a thought pops into Peter's head, it seems like the perfect time to try something new.

"Mr. Stark?" he pants, breaking away. 

Mr. Stark hums and sucks a rough love bite into his throat, scraping his beard across it and making Peter gasp.

"I, uh…I. Um."

Mr. Stark pulls away and cups Peter's cheek, looking fond. "Yes, dear?"

His brain catches traction again after a minute, and he remembers. "I was wondering if I could try…um." Peter's eyes drop between them. Mr. Stark never seems to wear underwear with his sweats. When he's soft, his cock just leaves a teasing impression, but right now. He's not soft. "I, um. Wanted to thank you, like I said, and I thought. I could try…"

Peter risks a look up through his lashes, hoping that Mr. Stark will jump in. As soon as he sees the man's amusement, he knows he's out of luck. "Try what, sweetheart?"

Peter licks his bottom lip, nervous but enjoying the way Mr. Stark's attention is dragged down. "Try, um…sucking your cock. Please."

The sound Mr. Stark makes is the next closest thing to a growl, and he pulls Peter in for a rough, tongue-fucking kiss. Peter's panting by the time Mr. Stark lets him go.

"I'd love nothing more. Get up for a second, baby." Peter starts to take a knee on the floor, but Mr. Stark stops him. "That's a lovely image, but let's make your first time more comfortable."

Mr. Stark turns and leans against the sofa arm, sprawling and stretching out. Then he pats between his thighs. "This way you can stretch out on your tummy."

Peter clambers into place, kind of embarrassed when he realizes how close his head is to Mr. Stark's… Dumb, that's the whole point, but he gets butterflies.

It helps when Mr. Stark strokes his hair and lets Peter take a minute.

Then the moment is over and Mr. Stark is pulling his sweats down, dick _right there_ in Peter's face. It's not difficult to lean in and lick a long stripe up the underside.

"That's my boy," Mr. Stark murmurs. "Why don't you suckle on the tip a little bit, hm? You don't have to take very much."

Peter presses his own dick down against the sofa, just enjoying the pressure, and does as Mr. Stark asked, wrapping his lips around the tip and sucking.

"Fuck, that's so good, baby. Now slide down a little further – careful not to choke. That's it. Fuck, there's a good boy. Now pull back and get a taste of me…wiggle that naughty little tongue into my slit." Mr. Stark sucked a breath between his teeth, fingers tightening just a little in his hair. "Shit, look at you. Look so pretty. Keep going, you've got it."

Peter lets his mind go hazy as he repeats what Mr. Stark's shown him. It's not so bad, actually. Kind of nice. It doesn't take a lot of thought, and Mr. Stark seems really happy. Saying nice things and scraping fingernails over Peter's scalp. Peter gets to feel good too, rubbing himself against the cushions while he works.

"Is your little cock hard, sweetheart? Does cock-sucking make you horny?"

 _You_ make me horny, he honestly thinks. When Mr. Stark starts thrusting into his mouth, Peter has to grind down a little faster. He's not…Mr. Stark isn't going too deep or hard or anything, just participating, taking control a little bit, gripping Peter's hair and rocking up into his face.

It's almost _too_ good, the way Mr. Stark is using him. It makes Peter imagine other things, and when Mr. Stark lets him up to breathe, he blurts out, "I want you to fuck me."

Oh, wow. He didn't…know he was thinking of saying that.

Mr. Stark is looking down at him with raised eyebrows. "That's _one way_ to get out of sucking my dick."

Peter's heart jumps. "What? No, I wasn't… I just, I can – " He starts to duck his head back down but Mr. Stark's grip holds him in place.

When Peter looks back up, Mr. Stark tips his mouth in a smirk. "I was teasing, sweetheart. You want me to fuck you tonight?"

Peter fumbles, unsure, but thinks and finds it's kinda true. "I just…I'm ready, I think. It seems…I want to. I don't wanna wait anymore." 

The approval on Mr. Stark's face cements the feeling. "Okay, baby. If that's what you want. Let's do this in your room, though."

Peter sits up fast, head swimmy. Mr. Stark tucks his dick away and stands. 

He hands Peter his mostly-full glass, gently mussing Peter's hair with his free hand. "Finish that for me, would you? No need to waste good scotch."

Peter nods and throws it back, fast as he can. He gasps a little at the amount of fire racing to his belly. 

By the time they get to his room, the world is a very wobbly carousel.

Mr. Stark helps him out of his clothing and guides him to kneel right near the headboard. He molds Peter's hands around the top and kisses his neck. "You just hang in there for a second. Be right back."

Peter presses his warm forehead to the cool metal and waits. Even with his eyes closed, somehow things continue to spin. He's vaguely aware of moving-around noises behind him, then Mr. Stark opening a drawer. The bed dips and Peter clings for balance until Mr. Stark is there, molded against his back. Naked. Peter slumps back against him, letting Mr. Stark have him. 

"Are you ready to take my cock now, honey?" Mr. Stark says. He's breathing fast and fondling Peter's dick. Peter feels Mr. Stark's cock against his ass-cheek. He wants…he wants to stop wondering, already. To just…get it done.

"Yes, Mr. Stark, please."

"Sweet boy." Mr. Stark holds him with one arm, reaches down with the other to play with Peter's hole. It's a little wet, a little cold, and… Peter's hips jerk and Mr. Stark chuckles a little, rumbling. "Now, when I put my cock here and start to push, you're gonna push too, okay, Pete? Do that and you'll take my cock easy, like the precious gift you are."

"Okay," Peter parrots, because it feels like he's supposed to.

Then Mr. Stark's finger is gone and something bigger takes its place, already pressing.

"Now push out, baby," he says and Peter does it, he does and it's so easy, just…suddenly in Mr. Stark's lap and full, so full of cock. "Look at you. Made for this."

Peter tries to speak but it comes out an incoherent little moan. Mr. Stark plays with Peter's cock a bit and Peter clenches down.

"Jesus, yeah, you feel so good, sweetheart. You feel so good. You're perfect."

Peter moans again, shifting his hips and nodding his head. He feels his bones melt when Mr. Stark wraps him up in both arms.

"You like sitting on Daddy's cock, kiddo? Does it feel good? I've got you," Mr. Stark soothes when Peter shudders. He starts stroking Peter's dick. It's almost too much. "Sshh, Daddy's got you. That feel good? What a perfect little fuck you are, honey. Feels so good when you squeeze down on my cock just like that. I think you're ready to take more, hm? Let's just lean you forward – there you go…"

Peter braces himself as instructed as Mr. Stark starts to thrust. As Mr. Stark starts to fuck him. It's overwhelming, not in a bad way, just a lot. Just so much. There's a smacking noise as their bodies clap together, and another…another sound…

"Fuck, listen to you, so desperate for it – "

Another sound that's him. Oh wow. Oh wow, this is really… Mr. Stark is fucking him. And it feels _really good_. He sounds…he sounds like he's in porn. He didn't know he could sound like that.

"Knew you'd be a slut for getting fucked. You need this, don't you?" Peter feels a steady pull at his scalp and moans. "Don't you, baby?"

"Need – need – yeah," Peter stutters out. "Don't stop."

"Never," Mr. Stark promises, and then Peter's eyes roll back and…

That's the last thing he remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	15. Chapter 15

Peter wakes up with a headache and a terrible taste in his mouth. He groans and smacks his lips and his stomach lurches unpleasantly.

"I know, buddy," a low voice says. "Let's get rid of that headache, open up."

Peter cracks his eyelids and pain stabs through his head. The sun shouldn't be that bright. That voice chuckles. 

"Your mouth, genius, not your eyes." Blindly Peter opens his mouth and pills are dropped on his tongue, followed by a small wash of water. "FRI, let's turn the sun down, hmm? Baby's got his first hangover, have pity."

Peter's eyelids go from bright red to a dim gray, and he sighs in relief. A hand strokes through his hair and he turns into it.

"There we go. That's better, isn't it?"

A hangover. That's weird, he doesn't usually drink. His fear of Aunt May's wrath usually overrides any possible peer pressure…

Peter jackknifes upwards and nearly pukes the painkillers right back up.

He forgot. For a second, he actually forgot.

"Hey, hey, lay back down," Mr. Stark says, pressing him back to the pillows with insistent hands. Peter lets himself go limp and chooses not to think about…anything. 

"Don't feel good," he mutters, unable to keep from stating the obvious. 

Mr. Stark leans in and kisses his forehead. "I know, baby. Should've let you drink so much scotch last night, I know you're a lightweight. FRI, have Bucky—no, who's in the house. Nat, have Nat bring in some warm buttered rolls, huh? Something to settle his stomach."

Peter moans again as his stomach pitches, and Mr. Stark pulls him close, rubbing a hand up and down his back. "I'm sorry, honey. It'll help, though, I promise."

Things start to come back together. The scotch. The blowjob. Asking Mr. Stark to fuck him. Mr. Stark actually fucking him. Then…

"Did I pass out?" Peter wonders.

"Yup. Conked your head pretty good on the way down, too, but you'll be fine. Probably isn't helping the headache, though."

"I'm sorry," Peter says, because apparently he passed out in the middle of sex and that seems like something Mr. Stark might get mad about. It's also kind of embarrassing.

"Not a big deal. A lesson for both of us on your alcohol tolerance."

Peter flinches when the door bangs open, and then there's a woman saying – very loudly – "I was raised by the KGB, Stark. I knew a hundred different ways to kill a man before I had breasts. Ask me to fetch for your pet again and I'll show you at _least_ one of them."

Peter doesn't even have time to be embarrassed that he's naked before she slams back out.

"So now you've met Nat," Mr. Stark says dryly. "At least she didn't throw each roll at my head individually. Let's sit you up, sweetheart."

*

Mr. Stark is right – Peter feels a lot better after finishing the bread. His stomach finally sits still and his headache dulls a little as the meds kick in. He still hurts all over, but it's better. 

Peter spends a foggy amount of time tucked up against Mr. Stark's chest, but eventually Mr. Stark kisses his forehead and says, "I've gotta get going. Drink a lot of water and make sure you eat. A hot shower might help, too."

"Thanks, Dad," Peter mutters, grumpy as Mr. Stark extracts himself. Peter feels a niggle of thought lurking deep in his brain; Mr. Stark chuckles and smacks his ass, and his attention slides away.

"Be good," Mr. Stark says, and then he's gone.

Peter buries his face in his pillow and tries to go back to sleep, but his head still hurts, and he feels gross all over. Groaning, he shuffles gingerly into the bathroom to brush his teeth, which is a genuine improvement. He's turning the taps to take a shower when he feels…a tickle.

An unfamiliar tickling on the back of his thigh. It's…

Huh. Peter's knees wobble and he lets himself land on the side of the bathtub, staring at the jizz on his fingers. 

Peter hadn't really…thought about it, after Mr. Stark confirmed he passed out, but he guesses he assumed Mr. Stark _stopped_ , right after. 

Peter wonders if Mr. Stark was already close, if it was just…if he came before he could stop, or if he actually chose to keep going. How long did he fuck Peter's unconscious body? Was it an inconvenience, or did he like it?

Peter can feel more come sliding out of his ass. He gets up and turns on the shower quickly.

Mr. Stark came in his ass. Like, _in_ his ass. His health teacher, Mrs. Kowalski, would be so disappointed. So many condoms on so many bananas. It's another thing he hadn't considered, but everyone talks about safe sex so much. He never thought…

For fuck's sake, Peter, the guy kidnapped you for sex. Why in the hell would you think he'd wear a condom?

He just…didn't ask, though. About the sex, yeah, but not the…he just put his cock in Peter. Bare.

Because he doesn't really care what Peter thinks. 

Fuck. Peter shudders violently all over.

He keeps both hands braced against the tile for a good eight seconds before he gives in, wrapping his hand around his cock. It's so fucked up. He imagines how Mr. Stark must have spread him out on his stomach after he passed out, carefully laid him down on the bed, then slid back in. How Peter's body must have jarred around, limbs loose, with Mr. Stark's thrusts. 

He wonders what Mr. Stark said while he couldn't hear. Mr. Stark likes to talk dirty, and mostly for his own benefit, Peter's pretty sure. So if Peter were blacked out, he'd probably keep talking. Was it filthier than normal? Did he say all the things he really feels about Peter? Whatever those are?

And then Mr. Stark came. Inside him. He stuffed Peter full of his come, knowing Peter would find out, the next day. Knowing Peter would feel his ass leak whenever he stood up. Peter wonders what…what Mr. Stark hoped he would think…

Peter whines, and comes all over his fist.

*

The necessary thoroughness of Peter's shower makes him conscious of how sore his asshole is. It _was_ buried under the avalanche of pain that is his hangover, but now that he's touched himself back there, it's all he can focus on.

He pulls on some clean clothes from the closet and wonders when Mr. Barnes is bringing lunch. His stomach is growling already, like the bread just woke it up.

Wait, Mr. Stark said Bucky's not here. And that woman doesn't exactly seem eager to babysit…

Peter's staring so intently at the door that it takes him a second to realize he's seeing what he sees.

The bar of the deadbolt isn't showing in the gap between the door and its frame. The deadbolt…isn't locked.

Heart pounding, Peter carefully walks over and tries to open it. Suddenly he's staring into the living room.

"Hello?" he calls. Loud enough, but not loud. His mouth is dry. "Mr. Stark?"

He leans forward, feet still inside the bedroom, listening as hard as he can for any sound of life.

It's dead quiet. The penthouse is empty. 

Peter feels nauseated as he shuffles a couple steps outside the door. Mr. Stark is always meticulous. Did he leave it unlocked on purpose? Is it a trap?

He stayed with Peter all night. Was the door unlocked the whole time?

Peter's head is spinning, and throbbing at the temples. He can't…he can't get out of the building. Even if he knew how to make the elevator work, there are so many people and they all work for Mr. Stark. Yeah, he doubts the SI employees know about the 15-year-old boy Mr. Stark is keeping upstairs, but there are security cameras everywhere (he thinks) and there's got to be…Mr. Stark promised he'd never get out.

Peter realizes his mouth has started to water like he's going to barf, so he heads towards the kitchen, away from the elevator. There are more rolls out on the counter – not hot, but pretty fresh – so he tears into one and breathes until his stomach calms down.

He should drink water. He finds a glass and fills it up.

He has to try, right? He has to…he can't just… _not_ try the elevator.

But when he walks over to it, he realizes there are no more buttons on the outside than there were in the car. The doors don't open by themselves the way they did for Mr. Stark, so.

Peter goes back to his water and gulps some down, relieved that the choice isn't there. He doesn't…he doesn't really want to know what would have happened if the elevator worked.

He notices a Starkpad on the counter, and touches the power button, 90% certain it would be locked. But it wakes up to the full interface, just waiting to be used.

Peter stares at it and drinks some more water. 

He won't…

Mr. Stark's right, it's mean to reach out to Aunt May or even Ned. If Peter told them where he was, he's afraid…Mr. Stark doesn't want to kill him, at least not yet, not right now, but he's afraid that's not the case for them. So he can't – won't – contact them. They'd go to the police and kick up a fuss, and then…Mr. Stark might not even tell Peter, just have it done.

The horrible thought creeps in: _are you sure he hasn't killed them already?_

Peter's reaching for the Starkpad as soon as the thought occurs to him. 

He launches a browser and hesitates, trying to decide how to do this. Google loads fine, but when Peter tries Facebook, he gets a 404. The wifi is on and it looks like it's connected. He tries gmail. Another 404. He types "May Parker" as a search, and gets 404. On a hunch, he tries "dancing cats." 

The search results instantly load.

The local news, nothing. Twitter, nothing. Midtown High's website. May's hospital. "Missing children." Nothing, nothing, nothing.

He's not conscious of the rage building in his chest until he's watching the Starkpad fly into the wall and staring at the shattered bits of screen all over the floor.

"Well, that's one way to fix the problem," Mr. Stark says from behind him.


	16. Chapter 16

Peter turns and looks at Mr. Stark, strolling towards him from the elevator. He looks…normal, except Peter has an awful, sick feeling.

"I'm sorry," he stutters out. "I didn't mean to… I mean, I guess I did, but I didn't want to break it, I just… I came out here to get some water."

Mr. Stark stares him down, face completely neutral, until Peter looks away. Nothing happens. Nobody moves.

"I came up to make lunch," Mr. Stark says eventually. "You hungry?"

"Yes sir," Peter says quietly. His stomach hurts. He thinks he might puke after all. Mr. Stark walks away, into the kitchen. Opens the fridge and digs around. It's a little easier, with the man's back turned, to try, "My door was unlocked and my stomach was bothering me, so I thought – "

"Yeah, I left it unlocked on purpose, in case I couldn't come back to get you lunch. I figured we were past the point where you had to be locked in."

Peter breathes carefully, scared to disturb the dead silence that follows that loaded comment.

"Thank you," Peter says, finally.

Mr. Stark carries an arm full of sandwich stuff to the island, and meets Peter's eyes. "You're welcome."

Peter has to wait until Mr. Stark turns his attention to making lunch before he can speak. "I wasn't… I wasn't trying to do anything bad." He watches a tendon pop out as Mr. Stark clenches his jaw. "I just wanted… I just wanted to _check_ on them, I wasn't going to... I swear, I wasn't going to send a message, I just… I just wanted to know that they're _alive_."

Peter watches as Mr. Stark carefully puts down the knife he was using to slice a tomato. "Come here."

"I didn't – "

"Come. _Here_."

Peter swallows down the bile that's trying to climb up his throat and forces his feet to move in what they insist are the wrong direction. When Peter stops a few feet away instead of the spot where Mr. Stark is pointing, Mr. Stark's face goes dark as he yanks Peter over by the wrist before shoving him up against the adjacent wall.

His hand closes over Peter's throat, and doesn't squeeze. Flexes a little, but does not squeeze.

"I told you last week that your aunt was alive and well. Do you think I'm a liar?"

Peter hasn't seen Mr. Stark look like this – cold and deadly – since Peter yelled at him that one time. "N-not… You…" He takes a deep breath. "If you _had_ to kill her or Ned, if they were causing trouble like I did, would you tell me?"

Mr. Stark's eyes shift back and forth for a moment, switching between Peter's eyes, before he finally says, "No."

Peter squeezes his eyes shut against the tears that immediately spring up. "See? I had to – "

Mr. Stark squeezes just enough to shut Peter up. "Stop. Talking. I wasn't finished. I didn't have to tell you _shit_ about your aunt. If she were dead, I would've changed the subject. If I kill them, Peter, I won't tell you. For your own goddamn good. But I won't lie if you ask. It's better if you don't, but I'm not a fucking liar."

Peter's crying openly now. Mr. Stark isn't even trying to comfort him. Peter wants to collapse against him and bury his face in the man's neck.

The fingers on his throat loosen just a bit. "As for your little buddy, he's also alive for now. He's been trying to hack into my server, and he's a persistent little shit. But security's better, these days. I haven't offed him yet. I won't, unless I absolutely have to."

"Th-thank you. I'm s-s-sorry," he heaves out. He's pathetic. He's fucking pathetic.

Mr. Stark sighs. "Sweetheart. There's no need to cry." He pulls Peter into a hug, and Peter clings, burying his face and sobbing while Mr. Stark rubs his back. "It's for your own good, blocking you from checking on them. I knew you'd just get worked up. It's better if you don't think about them at all. You'll see them again. But for now, there's nothing you can do."

Peter nods, sniffling and going limp with exhaustion. He doesn't fight it when Mr. Stark guides him to a stool. 

"Here, drink more water. You're already dehydrated."

Peter rubs at his swollen eyes and drinks his water as Mr. Stark builds their sandwiches. "I'm sorry about breaking the tablet."

Mr. Stark snorts. "I don't give a shit about _that_. Use them to wipe your ass, for all I care, they're easy to come by."

"Still. I'll clean it up."

"Not in bare feet, you won't. I'll have someone take care of it."

Peter contemplates, silently, whether Mr. Stark knows he tried the elevator. But his temper seems to be banked for the moment, so Peter doesn't bring it up.

Peter might zone out a little, cuz he blinks and Mr. Stark is handing him a plate. "C'mon, let's eat in the living room."

Peter lets himself be guided, feeling subdued. He sits and stares at his sandwich. Not really interested in eating, anymore.

"Take a bite," Mr. Stark says, so he does, and struggles to chew. 

Mr. Stark talks with his mouth full. "I think it's time you met FRIDAY. Unmute, baby girl."

"Hello, Peter," a woman's voice says. She has an Irish accent and sounds…really happy. "It's a pleasure to finally speak with you."

Peter looks at Mr. Stark.

"She's the AI that runs the tower. She wasn't allowed to speak to you before, but I'm lifting the blackout. If you need something and I'm not around, ask her. She'll help."

Peter nods, searching for AV surveillance in the room. "She can see…everything?"

"Don't worry, Peter," the voice chirps. "I don't experience arousal or disgust. It's completely illogical to be concerned about me judging you."

Well, he _wasn't_ until now. 

"Her social protocols aren't exactly refined yet." Peter watches Mr. Stark give him a wry smile. He feels numb. "But yes, she sees everything. Controls everything. The elevators won't work without authorization. The emergency stairwell doors, either. She has the ability to lock down every room in the building, actually."

Peter's stomach rolls. "What if… What if there's a fire? What if the electricity goes out?"

Mr. Stark reaches out and strokes Peter's cheek, like he's comforting. "The tower isn't connected to the grid, remember? It's very, very difficult – maybe impossible – to kill the power in this building. And if there's a fire, we have sprinklers." Mr. Stark's eyes probe his. "FRIDAY also has the power to suck all the oxygen from a room. Or an entire floor. It's used to kill a fire. Also, intruders."

Peter feels sick again, suddenly understanding. Mr. Stark withdraws his hand and picks his sandwich back up.

"I wanted you to meet FRI because she can be of use to you, but I also wanted to head off any more temptation. She knows when it's you on a device, and she won't let you see anything I don't want you to. She knows who's lingering by the elevator doors, and she won't open them up. She knows what you're allowed to do and what you're not, and she's authorized to stop you, however she needs to."

"Authorized to kill me, you mean."

"No," Mr. Stark says lightly. "Authorized to stop you. She can reverse the air flow fast enough to knock you out but keep you alive. If I decide you have to be killed, Peter, I'll do it. I wouldn't let anyone else take your life."

Peter sets his plate aside and wraps his arms around himself. He's so tired. "Do you actually think that's comforting?"

Mr. Stark watches him flatly while chewing his sandwich. He swallows and says, "Guess not."

"Sorry," Peter whispers. That was rude.

Mr. Stark puts his plate down and tugs on Peter's hand. "C'mere, baby."

Peter crawls into his arms, feeling like a stupid kicked dog that licks its owner's hand afterwards. Mr. Stark settles back and wraps him up tight. Peter hates that it helps.

"I hate seeing you so unhappy, sweetheart. I just don't want you to do something I can't forgive. I want you to have free run of the penthouse, to stop keeping you so cooped up, but you need to understand your limitations and the consequences before that's possible. That's all this is."

Peter holds his tongue. 

"How are you feeling?" Mr. Stark coaxes a minute later.

"Still pretty awful."

"You'll feel better if you eat. Do you want something other than the sandwich? Maybe soup?"

"No, sir."

"Okay," Mr. Stark says, though it sounds like anything but. "I have business to attend to, but I'm going to arrange for a special treat this afternoon. It should help you feel better."

Peter lets Mr. Stark shift him off his lap, and closes his eyes without responding. He doesn't want to know what kind of treat Mr. Stark believes will help him, but he knows better than to say it.


	17. Chapter 17

A couple hours after Mr. Stark leaves, the elevator opens with a ding and sets Peter's heart racing.

But it's not Mr. Stark. It's a girl Peter's never seen before in a beanie and glasses, lugging a massage table and a huge bag of stuff. He immediately rushes over and helps her out. 

"Thanks," the girl says as they set everything down in the living room. She turns a critical eye on his hair. "Wow, so you're definitely my haircut." 

Peter feels his face heat. His aunt has never let his hair get this long in his life – this is about the time she'd be calling him a sheepdog. 

The girl seems to take in his face for the first time. "I'm kind of hoping you're not my waxing appointment, though. Hey, Ceiling Lady?"

"How can I help you, Darcy?"

"Tony booked me for a haircut, massage and a male Brazilian. Dare I hope that the last is for His Highness himself and not for Jailbait, here?"

"Sorry, Darcy. All requested services are intended for Peter."

The girl – Darcy – purses her lips. "Yeah, I was afraid of that. You can go back to keeping the pod bay doors locked, Mrs. HAL. So, you're Peter, right?"

"Um. Yeah. Yeah, that's me."

"Just checking. I'd hate to denude the wrong underaged genitalia. How old are you anyway? …Actually you know what, I don't want to know. Plausible deniability might keep me out of prison. So, I'm going to suggest: haircut, massage, then wax. That work for you?"

Peter's face is hot. "Um. Sure. I mean, if that's what you'd…recommend."

"Well, I probably would recommend not taking candy from the guy in the van, but I'm a little too late, there. When's the last time you shampooed?"

"Just. This morning. A couple hours."

"Ok, I'm gonna give you a dry trim, then. Let's put you in one of the dining chairs, that should put you at a height that doesn't suck."

Peter sits down and watches while Darcy sets out her tools and drapes him with the cape thing. "So do you, um. Do you work for Mr. Stark?"

He watches her press her lips together, then she reaches for a comb and starts running it through his hair. "Yeah, kind of. He's helping me get my business off the ground. Kind of a, um. Investor, I guess."

Peter hesitates. He's heard that before, from Mr. Delmar. Before his place burned down. "And he helps you with your books?"

"Yeah," Darcy says tightly. "Hold still."

Peter closes his eyes and chokes back the urge to beg her for help. It's not like FRIDAY isn't listening to everything they say, but the temptation is there, regardless. She seems like a pretty regular person, the only one he might ever get a chance to see. Someone who owes Mr. Stark, yeah, but knows right from wrong. 

Even though she's willing to ignore what she knows is a bad situation. He's not sure he can blame her, given everything. 

"Can you, um. Would you mind just talking? About like, anything?"

Darcy's scissors miss a beat and then return to snipping. "Sure." 

Darcy's good at talking. She talks about her best friend Jane and Jane's new boyfriend Thor. Thor works for Mr. Stark, which is how Darcy got the, um. Business loan. She talks about her abandoned bachelor's and her student loan debt and a very weird period of time as an astrophysics intern. It helps. It helps distract Peter, and it helps because every new fact is a new reason not to want Darcy dead. 

*

The massage does make Peter feel better. 

He's never had one before, but he thinks she's probably good at it? He's a puddle of goo in a person-sack by the time she's done, so that's gotta mean something. 

Somehow easing the body aches has helped with his headache, too. She even massaged his face, which was amazing.

The waxing is mortifying for everyone involved. The less said the better, really.

*

Peter disappears into his bedroom after, to get dressed. When he comes out, he hears Mr. Stark talking to Darcy, and lingers. Just listening.

"Mr. Stark, this is…this is way too much money. I mean, thank you, but I can't… You've already given me a loan, so this is. I'll just take the $500 I was going to charge, you can keep the, like, 800% tip."

"It's not a tip," Mr. Stark says.

"Uhh, ok, then are you just really bad at math, or…?"

Mr. Stark huffs a laugh, the way he does when he's not actually amused but wants to show he's not thinking about murdering you either. "Okay, lesson number one in entrepreneurship, listen up because I'm giving you this one for free. You listening?"

"Um, yeah."

"The most valuable service you provide – especially for the kind of clients _I'm_ sending you – is your discretion. You're talented, otherwise I wouldn't back you, but that won't get you very far if you can't keep a secret. It's expected, at this echelon. And in my opinion, it should be rewarded handsomely."

Peter breathes carefully in the ensuing silence, praying that Darcy can read the threat in Mr. Stark's pleasant, confiding tone.

"Besides," Mr. Stark says when Darcy doesn't speak. "You should hike your rates. I know you already think you're charging double what you should, but my referrals won't blink at dropping five grand. In fact, it gives you legitimacy. So I'm just paying you what you should've asked for. Hey, Pete, stop lurking and come out here."

Peter freezes, but then rushes out so he doesn't keep Mr. Stark waiting.

Mr. Stark smiles like a toothpaste commercial when he sees him – like he's putting on a show for Darcy, but he doesn't seem mad underneath. Peter lets himself be pulled close even though he's a little self-conscious. Hands run through Peter's new haircut, tug a little, and tilt him back for a kiss. 

It's not the polite peck most people would restrain themselves to in front of company, and Peter knows his face is red by the time Mr. Stark pulls away. Mr. Stark smirks.

"How was the massage?" he asks. Darcy shifts restlessly, but Peter doesn't look at her.

"Amazing. You're right, I feel a lot better."

"Good. I'm glad." Peter's pulled against his side as Mr. Stark turns back to Darcy. Now that he's looking at her directly, Peter can see how uncomfortable she is. Mr. Stark must, too, he just doesn't care. He smiles and says, "See? Worth every penny. How often do you need to see him to maintain the wax?"

Darcy's eyes shift to Peter's for a split second before she fixes them back on Mr. Stark. "Probably once a month? After the next appointment, I'll have an idea of how fast his hair regrows."

"Ok, set it up, send me the appointment times. Any afternoon should be alright. We'll do the whole enchilada every time, pamper him a bit. Add anything else you think he'd enjoy."

Darcy's smile is tight. "Sure thing, boss."

"Alright – on your way, I'm going to thoroughly inspect the rest of his grooming and I wouldn't want to shock your delicate sensibilities."

"Um." Darcy hefts her bag on her shoulder, eyes wandering to Peter and only making it as high as his chin. "You should really avoid applying…friction to the waxing area for the first 24 hours. Otherwise he might get a rash."

Mr. Stark grins sharply. "Okay, good tip. Looks like you're getting more blowjob practice in tonight, champ."

Peter wants the ground to swallow him whole. Darcy, who kept up a cheerful and unruffled patter the entire time she removed the hair from his balls and ass, is now bright red. "On that note, I'm outta here."

"Thanks, Darcy," Peter murmurs, and she manages to meet his eyes this time.

She winks, but her voice is soft and serious. "You bet. See you in a month, Peter."

"See you."

Mr. Stark presses a kiss to his head and wanders away to pour a drink while Darcy leaves. The elevator doors have closed behind her when he says, "So, what do you think? You like her?"

"Yeah," Peter rushes. "She's nice. And, like, really good at her job."

From the dark amusement on Mr. Stark's face, he obviously knows Peter's saying that 70% so he won't fire or dispose of her. Even though it's true. It's just, if it weren't, he'd say it anyway. "Good. I'm glad. Drop your clothes, sweetheart. I may not be able to touch, but I can look."

"I'm mostly just kind of red down there right now – " Peter starts, but then Mr. Stark raises an eyebrow, and Peter strips.

Mr. Stark sprawls into an armchair and beckons, loosening his tie. His eyes roam over Peter's body once he's standing between the man's knees. "So what do you think?"

It's obvious Mr. Stark really likes it, and that alone has Peter's cock at half-mast. "I dunno. It's still, you know. New."

Mr. Stark hums, and trails a finger lightly up Peter's cock, making him gasp. "Your little cock looks so vulnerable like this. It's cute."

Peter struggles for words but then gives up, unsure what he can or should say. Mr. Stark watches his face, settling back and taking a sip of scotch. 

"Well?" Mr. Stark says after a while. "Get on your knees, sweetheart. You can grab a pillow if you want."

Peter jolts, feeling like a mouse that froze up in front of a snake, and grabs a sofa pillow to throw on the hardwood floor.

Once he's settled between Mr. Stark's thighs, he's not sure whether he's supposed to just…go for it or not. Mr. Stark doesn't speak, just drinking and looking at him like he enjoys the view. "Go ahead and open my fly up, honey."

Mr. Stark's always done this part, or like last night, he was wearing sweatpants, so Peter's a little clumsy, button and zipper a mirror image of what he's used to. Then he gets confused by the inner button.

He sneaks a look every so often, hoping that Mr. Stark isn't impatient, but the man is watching him, somewhere between fond and aroused, and stroking his fingers through Peter's hair. He lifts his hips once Peter has the fly figured out. "Scoot those down around my ankles, would you?"

Peter blushes as he pulls the slacks and briefs off of Mr. Stark's hips. Somehow it feels really…intimate, and a little bit wrong. Mr. Stark has to reduce the sprawl of his ankles a little as Peter pushes the pants past his knees, but then his knees fall back open. 

When Peter looks back up, his mouth goes dry. Mr. Stark just looks…obscene. Disheveled but professional from the waist up, but below his shirttails he's all naked thighs and full balls and a stiffening cock.

Peter gapes for moment, flustered when he finally looks back up at Mr. Stark's face. 

Mr. Stark smirks, and sets his tumbler aside. "Kneel up, sweetheart."

Peter lets himself be tugged into place by the hand in his hair, sprawled into Mr. Stark's lap but held just out of reach of the job he's obviously meant to do. Mr. Stark fists his cock and slowly strokes himself harder. Peter feels a little weak at the look on his face.

"You don't need to take any more than you did last night," Mr. Stark murmurs. "Not yet. But this time you're gonna suck me until I come. And if you're a very good boy, I'll help you finish me off."

Mr. Stark pulls his head forward a bit. Peter's eyes fall to Mr. Stark's dick. Mr. Stark lets him get just close enough to brush at the head with his lips, then his grip tightens and he holds Peter still to rub himself across Peter's parted lips. Peter manages to touch soft flesh with the tip of his tongue before it's angled away.

Mr. Stark tilts his head. "Have you ever heard the phrase 'dick-smacked,' Pete?"

He has, but only in the way of kids talking shit, and Peter never really considered…the image it could conjure in full technicolor, though he is now. "Um. Yeah," he says.

"You," Mr. Stark says, like he's considering, "have a face that really wants to be smacked with a dick."

Peter's cock throbs, and he can't really think how to respond, but then he doesn't need to, because Mr. Stark is holding him still and just doing it, his dick hitting Peter's mouth and chin – without much force, but with a definite thwack.

Peter's eyes fall closed. He can't tell the difference, right now, between humiliated and turned on. That…shouldn't be a thing…shouldn't be a thing you can get confused.

"I mean that in the best way possible, of course," Mr. Stark says, and then he's smacking Peter's cheek, harder than before. He rubs the tip over Peter's cheek, tapping it lightly a few more times.

Peter's brain is still full of static, so he's as surprised as Mr. Stark probably is when he blurts out, "You kept on fucking me after I passed out last night."

He can hear how accusing he sounds, and he's squeezing his eyes shut tight as Mr. Stark's dick smacks into him again, hard enough that Mr. Stark hisses.

Then the head is nudging at his lips. "Open up, baby."

Peter opens and sucks on the head, looking up at Mr. Stark's face because he doesn't sound mad. "I did finish fucking you last night," he says, eyes dark. "Used you like a little ragdoll. You came, did you notice that?"

He hadn't. Peter lets his eyes slide closed, too embarrassed. Mr. Stark just pets him as his tongue swirls around the man's cock.

"Well, it did," Mr. Stark says, like Peter had actually argued. "Your little body loves being fucked, Peter. And God knows I love fucking it."

Peter moans a little, with his mouth full. Mr. Stark swears.

"Do you like that, honey? Knowing that I fucked your unconscious body until it clenched hot and tight on my cock?"

Mr. Stark sounds breathless and turned on, nudging Peter's head down just a little deeper. The tip of Peter's dick touches the edge of the chair cushion and he presses in, trapping it between the fabric and his stomach so he can hump there while he uses both his hands on Mr. Stark.

He pulls up for air and says, "You didn't use a condom."

"Course I didn't," Mr. Stark murmurs, popping his dick back into Peter's mouth. Like he's shutting him up. Peter whimpers. "You're mine, Peter. If I wanna fuck you raw, then I will. If I wanna dump my come inside your eager ass while you twitch around me, why shouldn't I?"

And Peter should probably leave well enough alone, but the A student inside him has him pressing back against Mr. Stark's hand to free his mouth. He can't look Mr. Stark in the eye, though, when he points out, "It isn't safe."

Mr. Stark's hand abruptly goes from trying to push Peter back down to pulling at his roots and craning his neck back at an acutely uncomfortable angle. It leaves him little choice but to look into Mr. Stark's eyes.

Which look a little impatient. "You're mine, Pete," Mr. Stark says again. "I keep my things safe. I wouldn't put your health in permanent jeopardy any more than I would wreck one of my favorite cars."

"…Oh," Peter says eloquently. His head is a conflicting mess of impulses. Relief at what Mr. Stark's implying, a stir of something unnamable at being called one of Mr. Stark's _things_ , and a deep-down clench at the possessiveness. He can't tell if the feeling's good or bad. But when Mr. Stark's grip eases a little, Peter ducks back down to suck his dick. It seems safer than continuing the conversation.

Peter hears the clink of ice above him as Mr. Stark picks up his glass of scotch. His fingers are gentle again as they card through Peter's hair, almost idly, and Peter feels a pulse of…something…over being just. A way for Mr. Stark to wind down. A glass of scotch, something soft and biddable to pet, and a mouth to suck his cock. It's…

Mr. Stark chuckles into his glass, and Peter realizes just how vigorously he's stimulating his cock against the chair. He restrains himself, listening as Mr. Stark crunches some ice. 

"You humping the furniture like a naughty little puppy, Pete?" Peter's face is on fire. He stills his hips and takes more of Mr. Stark's dick in his mouth. "No, no, carry on. You get to feel good. Just remember what Ms. Lewis said – no friction on the newly hairless bits."

Peter squirms a little and pushes his ass out. If he angles just right, he's only rubbing the head of his dick and part of his belly.

"Horny little thing," Mr. Stark murmurs fondly. He scratches at Peter's scalp. "So needy. Don't worry, Daddy's gonna give you all the dick you can handle."

Peter freezes, a memory flickering to life. _You like sitting on Daddy's cock, kiddo? Daddy's got you. Daddy's gonna give you all the dick you can handle._ His hips jag forward into the cushion and he half-chokes himself on Mr. Stark's cock. He pulls off and coughs a little while Mr. Stark rubs his upper back. 

"Careful there. We can work up to that." Peter can't stop coughing, throat irritated, eyes watering. Mr. Stark makes a concerned-sounding tsk. "Here, have a sip of this, sweetheart, it's pretty watered down at this point."

Peter's cautious with his first sip from Mr. Stark's tumbler, expecting the burn of hard liquor, but Mr. Stark's right. The flavor's there, but barely. It's mostly water. He gulps it down, coughing and sputtering a little bit as he goes.

Mr. Stark just goes on rubbing Peter's back. "There you go. Slower, baby, there's no rush. There you are."

By the time he's breathing normally, Mr. Stark's cock has softened and Peter's has gone completely limp. Mr. Stark doesn't look angry, though, just smiles softly and musses Peter's hair. 

"Hell of a gag reflex, huh?"

Peter ducks his head, remembering some of the bullshit guys talked at school and realizing that might be a Problem. "Uh. Yeah, it's always…I've always been like that. Sorry."

Mr. Stark strokes Peter's face and nudges his chin until Peter is looking back up. "Nothing to be sorry about. We'll work on it."

He looks so…affectionate and reasonable and kind, but Peter knows that he's not. If he were, he'd say 'you don't have to do anything uncomfortable,' not 'we'll train you out of your discomfort.'

Peter lets his head drop onto Mr. Stark's knee, suddenly exhausted. Wishing he could just…stop. Just stop, for a while.

Mr. Stark pets his hair some more and it feels really good. Really comforting.

"When's the last time you ate, kiddo?" Mr. Stark asks quietly.

"Not…not since lunch."

"One bite of a sandwich isn't lunch. Let's get some food in you." 

Peter backs away as Mr. Stark stands up, pulling his now-wrinkled slacks up around his hips and zipping them closed. He holds out a hand towards Peter and hauls him off the floor. And then into a hug.

Peter feels his cock, half-hard, against his hip. He didn't finish his job. Mr. Stark pulls back and kisses his forehead.

He cups Peter's face in both hands, studying him for a minute. "You can finish getting me off later," he says. "You've hardly eaten today, and that's more important. I take good care of my things."

He guides Peter towards the kitchen, giving the nape of his neck a little squeeze.

"Well, the things I intend to keep, anyway."


	18. Chapter 18

When Peter wakes up the next morning, he doesn't get out of bed right away. As far as he can tell, the penthouse is empty. He feels a little weird and distant from reality.

Mr. Stark was really nice to him last night, after his coughing fit. He cooked a big dinner and they ate together, and then snuggled up on the couch for some tv. Mr. Stark changed out of his suit and they curled up under a big blanket and Mr. Stark held him and gave him kisses that didn't lead anywhere. 

Peter never did finish getting Mr. Stark off, but Mr. Stark didn't seem to mind. He walked Peter to his bedroom door and kissed him goodnight like a first date (or so Peter imagined), and Peter went to bed alone.

Mr. Stark also threatened to kill him – for a given value of threatened – three times yesterday.

Peter pulls the covers up over his head and closes his eyes.

*

He sleeps some more – sorta – but is roused awake by FRIDAY around 1pm.

"Mr. Stark is concerned about your caloric intake," she informs him. "You haven't eaten in 17 hours. Would you like him to come up and make you lunch?"

Peter sucks in a breath and then lets it out, but silently, with his head still buried under the covers. "No," he finally says. "I'll make something. Thanks, FRIDAY."

His thanks couldn't sound less enthusiastic, but FRIDAY sounds pleased as punch when she says, "You're very welcome, Peter."

*

Once Peter's fully awake and moving around, he realizes he's like…super aware of everything between his legs. 

The way his boxer-briefs cling to his bare skin, every little shift of the fabric as he makes himself a sandwich, feels…naked and sensitive and leaves Peter with this low-grade arousal. It's sort of driving him insane.

He wonders if that's why Mr. Stark did this. Why he had Darcy remove all his hair. He assumed it was like a…a thing he just liked, and probably also about controlling him (…isn't everything?), but maybe it was to make Peter horny, too.

By the time his stomach's full, Peter's dick is halfway hard but he doesn't want to jerk off. He doesn't want to like…give Mr. Stark the satisfaction (which is nuts, ok, he knows that it is, but…)

He also can't stand the brush of fabric anymore. He takes his boxers off, and realizes being exposed to the air is _so much worse_.

He just wants to turn the feeling down, make it less like it's dialed to eleven. So he goes through Mr. Stark's minibar. He's only ever had scotch from Mr. Stark's glass, but there are a lot of other options. 

Like the scientist he is, he tries them all. How else is he supposed to know what he likes?

Just sips, though. Just takes a taste of each. Peter finds that rum is fucking disgusting and gin isn't much better. Bourbon is kind of tasty, vodka tastes like…a sharp kind of nothing, and tequila is…nice. He likes tequila.

He takes a couple extra tastes of tequila, just to be sure.

He knows tequila is supposed to be taken in shots, but he can't find a shot glass, so he grabs a tumbler.

Before he can tip the tequila bottle, FRIDAY announces, "Mr. Stark suggests you pour no more than two fingers' height unless you want another hangover like yesterday." God that's fucking creepy. "He also suggests that you wait fifteen minutes before consuming any, and pour yourself a glass of water to keep your hydration up. Would you like me to set a timer?"

Peter is kind of annoyed, but he also doesn't want another hangover. He pours the amount of tequila Mr. Stark suggested, but leaves it on the bar. "Yeah," he says.

"Okay, Peter. I suggest you consume at least four ounces of water while you wait."

"Did Mr. Stark tell you that?"

He's being sarcastic, but apparently her 'social protocols' really are underdeveloped because she just chirps, "No. He asked me to monitor you and suggest preventative measures as you drink."

"Fantastic," Peter mutters.

*

He feels pleasantly fuzzy by the time fifteen minutes are up, so he guesses Mr. Stark was right. He drinks some water whenever FRIDAY says, and paces himself at her discretion.

He's enjoying the light buzzy happiness she's helping him maintain, but the tequila is really failing in its primary objective. It was supposed to make him _less_ horny. Instead he gets a fixated, slipping his hand into his boxers and lightly stroking his naked skin. The biggest difference is that he doesn't really mind.

He feels amazing. What was he so mad about again?

He's not even thinking about getting off. He just spends some time stroking himself – sometimes his dick, but mostly elsewhere – and squirming and enjoying how soft he feels. How sensitive. He kicks one leg up on the sofa back so it's easier to stroke behind his balls and…further.

Peter is utterly oblivious to his surroundings until Mr. Stark's voice comes from right above him. "Isn't this a nice way to be welcomed home."

Peter blinks his eyes open and sees Mr. Stark standing next to the sofa, looking down with a little smile on his face. He feels his body heat up further. He means to say hi, but instead he gasps in a breath and writhes.

"So," Mr. Stark says, "Can I join this party, or are you having too much fun by yourself?"

Peter squirms at the husk of his voice. "You can join."

Mr. Stark grins. "What a generous boy you are. Bedroom?"

Peter makes an impatient noise but takes Mr. Stark's hand and lets himself be led.

*

Mr. Stark lays him out on his bed and peels his boxers off, and then spends way too long just looking at Peter and stroking his inner thighs.

Peter makes a rather bratty whining sound, and Mr. Stark's lips quirk as he finally, finally starts touching him for real.

More than touching him. Peter gasps as he leans down and presses a kiss to his balls, then draws one of them into his mouth.

"Oh," Peter breathes. " _Oh_!"

Mr. Stark sucks, and manipulates it gently with his tongue, and Peter moans, burying one hand in the man's hair and anchoring himself with the other to the headboard. 

He's moaning, loud, by the time Mr. Stark's attention turns to his other testicle. He doesn't care. His head spins a little from how good this feels.

Mr. Stark pushes his knees up against his chest and asks Peter to hold them. Peter does, hugs them tight, and Mr. Stark hefts his hips off the bed before burying his face against Peter's hole. 

"Uhhhn. Fuck." It feels even better somehow than Peter remembered. Mr. Stark is sloppy, this time, licking everywhere and Peter's dick aches. He can't really stroke it unless he lets go of his legs. He knows better. "Oh _God_. Fuck. Mr. Stark, my…I can't…"

"Hand me that pillow, will you?" Mr. Stark says, cool as you please, like Peter isn't desperate to nut. Blindly, Peter reaches out for a spare and hands it down, and then suddenly his hips are elevated. The fold of his body is working with gravity.

"Thank you," Peter sighs, letting go of his legs and letting them sprawl open deeper, like they want to. He reaches for his cock and moans. "Thank you."

"Greedy little slut," Mr. Stark says, but it's thick with approval. A second later, he's back to eating Peter out.

Peter's noisy – lets himself be noisy. No point in being quiet. Mr. Stark likes it when he's desperate; Peter doesn't have dignity to lose. 

Mr. Stark sits up, dark-eyed and wild, before Peter can come. Fumbles off his slacks and reaches for the bedside drawer, hastily spreading lube on his cock, and then thrusting in.

Peter's so, so much more cognizant this time. He feels like skewered little bug, pinned open. Stuffed so full with Mr. Stark's dick. 

Mr. Stark is staring avidly at Peter's face. 

He starts to thrust while it's…too much, too big for Peter to catch his breath. Peter opens his mouth to ask for time, but what comes out is a moan. A deep, throaty one.

Mr. Stark looks like…like the devil as his hips start to smack Peter's ass. "How does that feel, baby?" Mr. Stark folds Peter's legs back even more aggressively, and on the next thrust he hits Peter's prostate. Peter's eyes roll back with a shrill cry. "How does that dick feel?"

Peter sobs. "Mr. Stark – "

Fingers fist into his hair and yank hard, and it shouldn't make the next sob one of pleasure, but it does. It also makes him pay attention. 

Mr. Stark has narrowed his eyes. "I don't think so. Not 'Mr. Stark.' Not anymore. I take such good care of you, don't I?"

"Wh – " Mr. Stark lets go of his hair and lays his hand across Peter's throat. "Yes. Y-yes, sir."

Mr. Stark pants with exertion and braces his free hand on the bed, hips drilling Peter with no sign of stopping. "Put a roof over your head, food in your belly, set rules and boundaries and make sure you keep them? Who am I, Peter? What am I?"

Oh God. Peter tries to close his eyes and turn his head, but Mr. Stark's hand clamps down and Peter wheezes in his next breath, staring up at Mr. Stark. The fingers loosen on his throat.

"Say it, sweetheart."

"Daddy," Peter breathes, and fuckfuckfuck, he shouldn't be turned on.

Mr. Stark's eyes almost seem to glow, mouth a pleased curve. "That's right. What a good boy."

He lays his full weight on Peter, hips rutting as he completely dominates Peter's mouth. Peter can't breathe, and he's not sure if it's the overextension of his hips or the crush of his ribcage or the line he just crossed.

"Stroke your little cock," Mr. Stark pants in his ear. "You deserve to feel so good."

Peter lets his mind go blank and slides his hand in between their bodies. "Okay."

"'Okay' what, Pete?"

"Okay, Daddy." 

Teeth sink into Peter's throat and Mr. Stark groans. His tongue laves over the spot and then he nips. Right where the flesh is already sore. And then he nips again. 

"Daddy," Peter tries, "Daddy, it hurts."

Mr. Stark makes a sympathetic noise and presses a gentle kiss where he'd been mauling him.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he pants. "You sound so pretty when Daddy hurts you."

Mr. Stark lifts his weight onto his hands and Peter gasps in a big breath of air. 

"Daddy needs to get back to work now, but I want us both to come first. Can you do that?"

"Uh-huh," Peter says, because his balls ache and he's been building to this for a couple of hours. He starts to jerk his cock as Mr. Stark watches. As Mr. Stark starts to nail his prostate. It's almost too much, but Peter throws his head back and starts to blank his mind out.

He hates the needy little mewls from his throat as he gets close, and the dirty kindness Mr. Stark lavishes on him. He hates the most that it makes him come his brains out, that he comes long and hard until Mr. Stark grunts and slams deep in his hole. Jizzes his claim.

They lay there together as their breathing comes down, Mr. Stark pressing gentle praise and kisses all over Peter's throat. Too soon, as quickly as Mr. Stark can catch his breath, he sits up and looks down at his suit and laughs.

"Christ, I'll have to change," he says, eyes crinkled up and happy. "Worth it." 

He drops a kiss on Peter's lips before he leaves.

Peter rolls over and stares at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Mr. Stark changing clothing down the hall, then calling for Peter to make himself dinner because he'll be out late. Then there's only silence.

Peter's cheek tickles, so he wipes away the tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:
> 
> 1) Shit gets darker from here …*snorts* well ok, Peter's mental health slowly declines from here, with behavioral consequences. If you need specific trigger warnings, please comment or message me on tumblr
> 
> 2) I’m going to try really hard not to fall off the face of the planet in June, but I might. I just got a really big contract (yay) and will probably be working twice as many hours as I have been. I might not have the noodles for writing more, though I have at least one more completed chapter I can dole out


	19. Chapter 19

Peter falls into a fresh routine in the coming weeks.

He feeds himself when FRIDAY says. Otherwise he lays around, watching whatever he's allowed to on the screen or reading a book or jacking off. Well, not really 'off,' he saves that for Mr. Stark because it's always better when he does. 

He's also slightly drunk most of the time. His tolerance increases. Mr. Stark only comments that he'll have to raise their budget for booze. One time he gets home and Peter's sloppy drunk – he doesn't like that, so it doesn't happen again. 

FRIDAY helps make sure it doesn't.

*

Mr. Stark has never brought his work into the penthouse, but apparently it was a semi-common occurrence, before Peter moved in. For his inner circle, or when privacy or hospitality would smooth a deal. This is what Mr. Stark tells him one day after a nooner, and that he'll be resuming the practice that night with a "family meeting."

Peter's supposed to be on his best behavior for company. Mr. Stark also tells him not to shower.

Peter doesn't think they're related.

*

Things start off okay enough.

Peter panics a little over the Jizz Situation, but Mr. Stark said not to shower, so he puts on boxer-briefs and thick sweats and hopes that contains the sex stench and…drip issue…well enough to avoid abject embarrassment.

Mr. Stark keeps Peter tucked close as people arrive. There's Mr. Barnes, who's as talkative as ever, and Nat of the mysterious last name, and after that, everyone's new. A guy named Mr. Barton, who has two hearing aids and speaks to Nat in sign but everyone else out loud. Mr. Rhodes, who seems to backtalk to Mr. Stark more than even Nat. Apparently, he's Mr. Stark's oldest friend. 

And last is Thor ("like Cher," Mr. Stark snarks when they're introduced). Shy with uncertainty, Peter asks after Darcy, and Thor says she's doing 'splendidly.' None of them are exactly normal, but Thor's particularly weird and loud.

Peter's mostly silent, watching. Mr. Stark greets everyone with a hug, and none of them seem particularly scared of him, but when he uses that voice – the one that sends a chill down Peter's spine – they defer to whatever he says. 

Otherwise, it's a bit of a circus. Everyone talks over everyone else, and insults each other, and there's a lot more shouting than he expected, both in amusement and anger. Peter never really considered how Mr. Stark conducted business, but given the way Mr. Stark is with him, he would've expected things more…orderly. Iron-fisted. 

It's the only time he's ever seen _pizza_ in the penthouse. Mr. Barton also brought a dog. Mr. Stark ignores Lucky completely but doesn't object when Peter gives him a scratch.

Peter's curled up in Mr. Stark's lap for most of the evening. He wasn't happy about it at first, but everyone acts like it's expected – ignores him, really – so after a while, Peter relaxes. Mr. Stark rubs his back and ruffles his hair and otherwise strokes him absentmindedly like he's Lucky. Occasionally, he'll turn and murmur an aside in Peter's ear. Never really about the business stuff, mostly things about his friends.

Peter feels sloggy and full of pizza and just a little drunk – on another novelty, beer, which Thor brought – when Mr. Stark's hand slips down the back of Peter's sweats and right inside his boxers. 

Peter freezes, face blazing hot, and looks around. The only one actively watching is Nat. 

She's smirking a little.

Mr. Stark's fingers slide through the come that's been leaking out of Peter's hole. Peter ducks his head against Mr. Stark's neck, closes his eyes and tries his best to stay quiet and still. Mr. Stark pushes some of the jizz back inside him, which only serves to make more fall out.

Peter shifts his top thigh in an effort to hide his erection. He doesn't look up. He knows his face is beet red and doesn't want to know whether anyone else has noticed. 

Maybe if he just…

Peter lifts his mouth to Mr. Stark's ear. "Daddy," he murmurs (hopefully too quiet for anyone else to hear), "I'm thirsty – can I go get some water?"

Mr. Stark looks at him in this way that says he knows exactly what Peter's about, but nods. He slips his hand out of Peter's sweats but grabs Peter's arm and holds him still.

"Before you go," he says at a normal volume, and then offers his fingers up to Peter's mouth.

His fingers that are absolutely covered in the come that came out of Peter's ass.

The room has gone silent for the first time since everyone arrived. Mr. Stark raises his eyebrow, and with deep humiliation, Peter leans forward and sucks the fingers into his mouth. He licks them until they're clean.

"Good boy," Mr. Stark murmurs, and nudges Peter off his lap.

Peter hastily retreats into the kitchen as the ruckus resumes, heart pounding and eyeballs burning just a bit. He grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it with water, knowing that Mr. Stark will be listening for the sound.

He sips the water slowly, desperate to prolong the escape. He knows he has to go back sometime, but he can't stand the thought of them looking at him now. 

He's shaking a little.

"Pete, you okay in there?" Mr. Stark calls, just enough of an edge that Peter knows his time is up.

He works hard to keep the tremor out of his voice as he says, "Yeah – just another minute!"

Mr. Stark murmurs something he can't hear, and then everyone else bursts into laughter. Peter feels a little ember of rage that he thought was banked, glowing red hot in his belly.

_Don't do anything stupid, Peter. Don't…everything is fine. Why do you care what a bunch of criminals think, anyway?_

Peter takes a deep breath and refills his glass of water, taking it with him as a handy prop. As he walks back across to the living space, everyone's eyes follow, though they keep on talking like normal. Everyone looks at him except Mr. Stark, who ignores Peter until Peter – he's not even sure why – decides to sit on the floor.

Suddenly Mr. Stark is staring at him, and no one else even dares.

"Peter," Mr. Stark says under the conversation. It's the tone of voice you use to convey the depth of your displeasure to a naughty dog. Lucky ducks his head. 

Peter swallows. "Yes, sir?"

"Come here." Mr. Stark sounds even less pleased than before.

Peter's somewhat outside himself as he debates what to do. He knows the only _sane_ thing to do is to fix this as quickly as possible, but for some reason, what he does instead is say, "I'm really comfortable here, sir, and I was probably putting your leg to sleep."

That's a conversation-stopper, apparently. Everyone is watching. Well, Mr. Barnes is pretending not to be, but he's tense, and Mr. Barton sighs like he's bored. Nat looks kind of entertained. Peter can't read Mr. Rhodes. 

Thor…Thor actually looks kind of sympathetic. But it looks more like the face other adults make when someone's kid is asking to get in trouble.

Mr. Stark doesn't speak for a very long time. Peter takes a sip of water and doesn't look at him.

Finally, he hears, "Unless you want a serious downgrade in accommodation, you'll get your ass over here _right now_."

Peter's heart is pounding in his ears. He abandons his water glass on the coffee table and stands up, walking to Mr. Stark without meeting his eye.

Mr. Stark is no longer lounging in his chair; Peter can see that even with his eyes on the ground. When he gets close enough, he's gripped bruisingly hard by the arm and yanked closer, nearly tumbling into Mr. Stark's lap.

When he doesn't look up, Mr. Stark takes a vice grip on his face and makes him.

Peter feels a wave of nausea at his expression. "What, exactly, do you think you're doing?"

"Noth – "

Mr. Stark smacks him so hard across the face that his head snaps around. He hears himself yelp like a dog. It _hurts_. Peter never knew a slap could hurt that much. He presses his hand to his cheek, eyes burning, and tries to get his ragged breathing under control. It's the only sound in the entire room except for the snuffling of Lucky against his leg. 

"Barton, I swear to God, get that mutt out of my way."

Mr. Barton snaps and Lucky abandons his attempt to check on Peter. Peter's breath hitches.

"You want to try that again, Pete?"

"I was being stupid," Peter chokes out. It's the only true thing that will appease Mr. Stark.

"You're goddamn right, you were." Mr. Stark takes ahold of his face again to make him look up. It's gonna bruise. 

Mr. Stark's gaze feels like a laser beam, cutting. 

"You think they don't all know you're my whore? Are you under the impression they might not be aware that you exist as a hole for me to fuck?"

One single sob gets past him before he chokes on all the rest.

Mr. Stark looks _mean_. "Hell, all of them have probably listened at one point or another while I used you. They've all heard you beg like a needy slut."

" _Fuck you!_ " It hardly even sounds like Peter's voice, wobbly and hysterical. " _I HATE you, you ASSHOLE._ "

The back of Mr. Stark's hand strikes him so hard he'd have fallen if Mr. Stark didn't have ahold of his arm. He tastes blood. 

And then before he has his bearings, the grip relinquishes, sending Peter stumbling to the ground.

"Barnes," he hears Mr. Stark say, "Do the kid a favor and take him downstairs. I don't think he's safe with me right now."

Mr. Barnes doesn't even bother asking him to stand, just hauls him to his feet by the back of his shirt like a kitten and propels him into the elevator. The room they leave behind is completely silent, aside from the sound of shattering glass.

*

"Pretty dumb," Mr. Barnes says when they're halfway down. Peter is crying as quietly as possible, but the sound of Mr. Barnes actually speaking to him shocks him silent.

The man doesn't just speak English. He sounds like he's from Brooklyn.

"Maybe he'll kill me now." It's not a sentence that should sound like hope, but it does. He's a little surprised at himself, but not as much as he should be.

Mr. Barnes gives him a pitying look. "You still got no idea, do you? There's no payoff in killing someone who pisses you off. Stark, especially, likes to let enemies live after he's ruined them."

"Is that why he's doing this to me?"

Mr. Barnes snorts like that's the dumbest thing he's ever heard. "This isn't _ruining_ , and you're not his frickin' enemy. You're just a pretty piece of ass who caught too much of his attention for your own good."

Mr. Barnes shoves him into his old cell fully clothed, and Peter thinks: _Well. That's a hell of a line for my headstone._


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a super short chapter - that's just the way it fell. I'll try not to keep you guys waiting too long for the next one

As it turns out, Peter's only in his old cell for a couple hours. The time passes in a haze of rage and anxiety that's almost paralyzing. His face hurts, and he can't catch a breath but he won't cry. His mind bounces constantly between defiance, terror, and betrayal. He wedges himself in the corner, but it feels like he's pacing, his mind and heart restless.

The door creaks open before lights out, which Peter wasn't expecting. Mr. Stark is standing there with an ice pack. His face is inscrutable. 

Peter watches and waits. His hands shake with adrenaline. Still, he catches the cold pack neatly when Mr. Stark chucks it at him. 

"Probably too late to keep you from a black eye, but that should bring down the swelling." 

Peter presses it to his face and closes his eyes. He doesn't get up, or speak. 

His chest feels too tight, and his throat…feels like he's choking. Like something's stuck there, and it won't go down, but he also can't let it come up. At least the inside of his cheek stopped bleeding, where he cut it on his teeth. 

"I'm not going to say I'm sorry," Mr. Stark says eventually. Peter can hardly swallow around the lump. "I will say I never intended to hit you. But kid, you can't mouth off in front of other people. I could've dealt with it a whole other way, if we'd been alone."

Peter laughs a little, unable to help it. It sounds…wrong. He doesn't look up to see what Mr. Stark thinks. "I thought they were your friends."

"Honey, I don't have friends. Just people who do a damn good impression. What you saw were allies who won't stab me in the back without a good reason. Going soft on you might qualify. Now get up, I'm taking you home."

Peter breathes for a minute, trying to calm the band around his lungs. But eventually, he stands. The last thing he wants is to be left here. 

But he can't choke down the impulse to say, "It's not home." 

Mr. Stark simply steers him towards the elevator. "Well. It's the only one you're getting, so you should probably rethink that."

*

Peter's next few days are painful and lonely. He feels ill and restless all the time, burning with rage one minute and gasping with anxiety the next. And all of it is blanketed with impotence. This is how he felt just before he started fucking up Mr. Stark's shit. Like he'd going to go crazy if he didn't do _something_.

But it's so different now. Every time Peter thinks of destroying something, he thinks about what might happen to him, after. 

The consequences never felt real, before Mr. Stark took him. Now the consequences are all that he can see. Mr. Stark will kill him or throw him in the basement to rot. Or just beat the shit out of him. Peter didn't really worry about that before, but now he knows. If his actions are harsh enough, public enough, it's on the table. 

Peter's not sure what he's preserving his safety for. What kind of out he's even hoping to find. But he thinks about being hurt or killed or locked away and realizes that he's still holding on. For something. For some reason.

And that means he can't destroy the penthouse. No matter how much he wants to. He can't yell at Mr. Stark or slap _his_ face, even if the man were here.

But he's not. He hasn't seen Mr. Stark since that night. He leaves before Peter's awake and returns after he's gone to bed, and Peter only knows he comes home at all because FRIDAY confirms it when Peter asks. 

As the days go on, Peter's anger is smothered under the weight of his helplessness. The bruise on his cheek goes from rust to deep purple, then green. He regains the ability to sleep on his right side. 

By the time it's yellow, the anger is dead. And Peter realizes that he's desperate for company. 

He's just as isolated in this penthouse as he would have been in the subbasement. He's just more comfortable. Warmer. But still all alone.

A few days more, and he's willing to bury his pride. He should've behaved better in front of Mr. Stark's friends. He was warned. Mr. Stark's never come close to hitting him before. He rarely gets mad at Peter's backtalk, when they're alone. Just disobedience. 

He thinks about what happened, what he did in front of other people. At least…at least Mr. Stark didn't hurt him. Not really. 

Eventually, Peter asks FRIDAY to wake him when Mr. Stark gets home. If he goes another day by himself, he'll lose it. The bedside clock reads 3am when FRIDAY rouses him, and Peter pads out into the dim light of the great room, rubbing his eyes open.

Mr. Stark stops in his tracks. "Peter. What are you doing up?"

"I haven't seen you." He hates that his voice sounds naked and upset. He hates it, but Mr. Stark's face softens a little. "I don't hate you," Peter continues, because he doesn't know how else to fix anything. He's not sure that that's true, but it seems like a place to start.

And it works. Mr. Stark comes closer and pulls Peter into his arms. Peter sags against him, trying to keep his sobs utterly silent. 

Mr. Stark kisses his hair.

Peter draws a shaky breath. "Will you… I can – I can do something for you – "

"How about we just sleep, hmm?"

Peter clings. "Together?"

"Sure, baby. Together."

Peter lets himself be shepherded back to bed.

Mr. Stark tucks him in. He leaves to change, and Peter tries not to make a fuss. He's crying. He tries to keep quiet, embarrassed and unsure why he's weeping. It's not sadness or relief or frustration, or…anything. He's just…leaking, like a faucet with a bad washer.

Mr. Stark doesn't call attention to it when he gets back. He slides under the covers and holds Peter close, rubbing his back as Peter leaves a puddle on his t-shirt.

"It's okay, Pete," he says, quiet and sincere. "You're okay. I shouldn't have left you alone so long. I'm sorry, baby. I forgive you. I'll make it up to you, I swear."

Peter's so tired, and the words feel like a balm. The slide into sleep is imperceptible.


	21. Chapter 21

Mr. Stark is gone the next morning after Peter makes up. He always is. Peter thinks he goes back to his own bed after Peter falls asleep. He was still here when he woke on the hangover morning, but maybe that was different because Peter was drunk or hit his head, or because it was right after his first time. Or maybe he left and came back, and Peter didn't notice.

Peter rolls over. A tear slides over the bridge of his nose, which is annoying. His limbs feel heavy, but he doesn't sleep. 

Eventually, FRIDAY calls for Peter to eat, and he drags himself out of bed and shuffles to the kitchen. He stares at the contents of the fridge for a while before taking an apple and going to the living room.

FRIDAY prods at him repeatedly as he zones in and out. She leaves him alone once he's down to the core.

He dozes off again on the sofa, and wakes up to Mr. Stark stroking his face. He presses into the touch, because the contact feels so good. Mr. Stark smiles as Peter blinks awake.

"Hey, sweetheart. FRI said you've been sleeping. You feel okay?"

Peter's eyes flutter closed when Mr. Stark's hand presses against his forehead. Something loosens inside his chest. "'m ok, Daddy. Just tired."

The name slips off his tongue so easily this time. Mr. Stark brushes his lips against Peter's temple, and Peter's eyes prickle.

"You're probably hungry, too," Mr. Stark murmurs. "You didn't eat much today."

Peter blinks at the windows. It's dark outside. The whole day is gone. He shrugs.

"Well." Mr. Stark's eyes probe his. "You're going to eat something now. I'll be right back."

He presses a kiss to Peter's forehead, and Peter closes his eyes.

*

Peter lets Mr. Stark feed him, bite by bite. He curls into Mr. Stark's lap and opens his mouth like a baby bird instead of reaching for the fork.

Mr. Stark looks amused but indulges him.

Chewing and swallowing feels like an awful lot of work, but Mr. Stark gives him a kiss for every bite, each in a new spot. It feels good. It also makes him ache, makes him want to weep and cling and beg Mr. Stark to never leave.

He's halfway through his meal when it starts to feel like too much, and he just needs…more. More touch. 

"Daddy." He chokes back a sob and shoves aside the fork hovering at his face, kneels up and straddles Mr. Stark's lap, plastering them together. 

He kisses Mr. Stark's mouth, frantic. And hears the fork clatter to the plate before two arms wrap around him, tight.

Something lights up in Peter's brain, and he feels more alert than he has all day. "Daddy – "

"Right here, sweetheart," Mr. Stark pants, and Peter lets his hips press forward, rubbing himself against Mr. Stark's stomach. He's not hard yet, but it feels good.

Mr. Stark grabs the hair at the base of Peter's skull and pulls Peter back into the kiss, mouth aggressive. 

Peter hums. He can feel Mr. Stark's dick getting hard in his slacks. Grinds down against him. Mr. Stark grabs his ass cheek and moans.

"Daddy – " Peter's mind grasps for something…something _else_ but he doesn't know what. 

He bites down on Mr. Stark's lip, enjoying the sharp pull against his hair in response. They're rocking together desperately, now, both of them hard. Peter bites again, too hard this time, shocked at the taste of a little blood.

Mr. Stark growls. A sharp warning smack lands on Peter's ass.

Peter gasps, body stuttering to a stop with the bolt of arousal.

Mr. Stark devours the expression on his face, and slides Peter's underwear down below his ass. The waistband cuts into his thighs and twists more tightly around his cock, but he forgets about all that completely when another slap lands on his bare ass, bright and stinging.

" _Daddy_ ," he pants, shuddering all over. He starts to rub his dick against Mr. Stark again, arching his ass out between thrusts in invitation.

_Smack_ , sting, moan. _SMACK_ , sting, moan. 

Mr. Stark's teeth sink into Peter's throat with a feral sound. It's a new pain, dull and deep, and Peter wraps his arms around Mr. Stark's neck and clings.

The next blow lands on his ass with enough force to make Peter cry out, desperate.

Mr. Stark rubs his beard against the raw flesh of the bite. "Is this what you needed, honey?" His voice is deep and thick. He slaps the same spot twice, hard, in fast succession. "Did you need some tough love from Daddy?"

Peter nods frantically, because yes, yes, this feels good. He needs more.

"Words, baby, or it stops."

"Need – " Peter sobs. "Hu-hurt me, Daddy. Hit me. _Please_."

"So perfect," Mr. Stark breathes, and then he bites down on a new spot and tugs at the flesh between his teeth. Peter's underwear is soaked with pre-come, cotton plastered to his cock.

"Unh – " Peter grinds his hips in a little circle, fast and almost too hard. He shudders as Mr. Stark spanks him. "Daddy… _Daddy_ , please – "

"Are you gonna come? Huh, Pete? Are you gonna make a mess in your underpants from how much you love it when Daddy hurts you?"

"Uh-huh – uh-huh – "

Mr. Stark goes still and intent, watching Peter's face as he lands a series of punishing blows on tender flesh. Just waits and watches while Peter rubs himself off, fingers twisting in his shirt. Peter's eyes roll back and then everything goes tight, throat locked up in a silent scream as he comes in long, intense waves, jizzing his shorts. 

It's not until afterwards that he starts to moan, deep relieved sounds as Mr. Stark rubs and squeezes his ass cheeks.

Mr. Stark's hands and mouth are still greedy, even though Peter is spent. "Christ, my dick is hard – that was beautiful, sweetheart."

Peter's limp as a ragdoll when Mr. Stark tosses him face-down on the couch. 

Mr. Stark bites down, hard and deep, on a sore chunk of Peter's ass cheek. Peter twitches, too spent to do more. Too spent to do more than moan when Mr. Stark hocks and spits on Peter's asshole, when Mr. Stark shoves his own pants down and presses in.

There's no finesse. Mr. Stark just chases his own end. Peter feels his mind lull and go blank. Feels, distantly, the way his body jerks around in response to the desperate thrusts. Feels himself hum when Mr. Stark bites at the meat above his shoulder blade and comes.

Feels the relief, the peace, of Mr. Stark's weight collapsing on top of him, covering Peter and pressing him down, down, down. Holding him to the earth. 

"You're so perfect for me, honey," Mr. Stark murmurs. He presses soft kisses to everything that hurts. "That was incredible."

Peter hums. Nothing hurts, except for the throbbing bite marks, the slightly sore gape of his asshole, and the hot flesh of his ass being scraped by Mr. Stark's body hair.

Nothing hurts except all of that. 

Peter sighs, content, and lets himself drift.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the pacing of this chapter feels better when it's read right after the last chapter, which is something I didn't notice when I was writing/editing the entire thing in multi-chapter chunks. maybe I'm just being paranoid, idk.

Peter wakes up alone the next morning, rutting against the bed from a dream. 

He's disappointed to realize that his ass doesn't hurt as much as he wants it to. It hurts – even the luxuriously soft sheets make his skin burn when they brush against him on every thrust. Still, it doesn't hurt enough.

He sighs and gets out of bed, making a beeline for the living room liquor cabinet.

"Peter," FRIDAY says, "I recommend against consuming alcohol on an empty stomach."

Peter sighs, grabs the tequila bottle, and makes toast.

*

To his delight, Peter discovers around midday that while his ass doesn't hurt all that much from the spanking, his asshole does hurt from Mr. Stark's hasty enthusiasm. Worrying at it with his fingers produces the perfect amount of pain.

When Mr. Stark returns home, he finds Peter naked, leg up on the sofa back, playing with asshole and gasping. 

Mr. Stark tsks when he gets a look. His hole is probably puffy and sore-looking; Peter's been agitating it for hours. Mr. Stark settles on the sofa and he presses a kiss there. Then a soothing lick.

Peter grunts and shakes his head, rolling his knees to his chest to present himself. "Please – Daddy, I want it to hurt. Bruise me up."

"Okay. If that's how you want it, baby." Mr. Stark looks satisfied. 

Then he does as Peter asks.

*

Mr. Stark wakes him up later that week and warns him that Darcy is coming. Apparently, it's been a month since he saw her. Peter scrubs himself clean, jacks off, and has booze for breakfast, crossing his fingers for a case of whiskey dick when she has him put his legs in the air. It seems like horny is his only reliable emotion, these days.

And he doesn't want Darcy knowing what a needy whore he's become.

She tries to have a conversation, but stops when he doesn't respond.

*

The waxing and subsequent low-grade burn are different this time. Peter likes them. He spends the afternoon in bed pinching the puffy, sensitive skin and edging himself towards orgasm again and again.

He's thinking about letting himself come when Mr. Stark shows up in the doorway.

"Daddy – " Peter gasps, and Mr. Stark comes closer.

"Mm, FRIDAY told me you were being a dirty little boy. Didn't Ms. Lewis remind you not to rub yourself down there?"

Peter digs a fingernail into his slit and writhes. "It burns."

Mr. Stark stands next to the bed with casually critical eyes. "When did you become such a pain slut, hmm? Get your filthy little paws off your crotch."

Peter moans and then…doesn't. There's this wild, dangerous impulse inside him, and he's just drunk enough to act on it. "What are you gonna do about it? Slap me?"

Mr. Stark's eyes slowly light up with…something. He braces one knee on the bed and takes ahold of Peter's face. His voice is low and menacing, but also fake, like he doesn't mean it. "Don't tempt me, you brat."

"So…what? You'll only hit me in front of other people?" Mr. Stark is waiting. Watching and waiting for something…else. Something more. "Why? So they don't know you're full of shit?"

Mr. Stark smacks him. It hurts, hurts just as much as he remembers. But this time, there's an extra bright burn, a validation that makes Peter's chest loose.

Mr. Stark strokes the sting of his cheek, and Peter moans. 

Mr. Stark's eyes are coal-black on Peter, and there's a threat in his voice when he says, "Get your hands over your head, or I'm not doing to do that again."

Immediately, Peter's fists are wrapped around the headboard. "Daddy," he slurs out, "want it harder."

Mr. Stark eyes him for a moment, then moves away from the bed, turning his back. Peter whines and reaches for him, but Mr. Stark snaps sharply without looking. "Hands on the headboard. Now."

Peter does as he's told and Mr. Stark takes his suit off, laying each piece neatly on a chair. Instead of simply rolling his sleeves up like usual, he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs out of it. Then peels off his undershirt. He toes off his shoes, pulls away his socks, and then strips off his pants. Drops his underwear.

It's the first time Peter has ever seen him naked.

And that's something he hadn't even noticed until now.

He's not sure why this is the first time. Mr. Stark has nothing to be ashamed of, and carries himself like he knows it. His body is littered with poorly-healed scars, but he doesn't seem to mind them, and Peter finds them…something. Intriguing. Arousing. Oddly beautiful. 

Beyond the scars, he's just beautiful, full stop. He has a ropey kind of strength that makes Peter imagine being held down and hurt. Peter's cock is aching.

Without saying a word, Mr. Stark climbs on the bed, straddles Peter's chest and settles his weight on there. It makes it hard to breathe. 

Mr. Stark tilts his head and considers Peter. His fingers brush softly over his reddened cheek. "Why am I slapping you, Pete?"

Peter's heart hiccups. "I…I was bad."

"No," Mr. Stark says patiently. "I'm slapping you because you asked for it. But why did you ask?"

Peter breaks eye contact, unsure. "I…"

Mr. Stark thumbs gently over Peter's chin, and Peter turns his eyes back towards him. "Hmm."

Mr. Stark's eyes are so intent, Peter misses the wind-up this time before he strikes him.

It's harder, this time, just like he asked. Peter lays there, absorbing the waves of fresh pain that seem to amplify after the initial hard sting. 

His heart is pounding, but his brain feels strangely light.

When he's ready, he turns to look up at Mr. Stark and finds him watching with a little smile on his face. Soft and fond, and completely at odds with the force he uses to smack Peter again from the other direction.

Peter's still trying to catch his breath, still rolling on the pain, when Mr. Stark cradles his face in both hands and looks at him with something…almost loving. 

"Incredible," he murmurs. Peter's not sure what that means.

He forgets to wonder when Mr. Stark says, "Let's try something new." 

Mr. Stark doesn't explain, just unpeels Peter's hands from the headboard and presses Peter's arms down to the bed, squeezing a silent order not to move before he lets go. Peter's dazed. He feels a little drunk. It's the easiest thing in the world to stay where Mr. Stark wants him.

Then Mr. Stark shuffles further up Peter's body.

Peter's trapped. His ears are boxed in by strong thighs, arms pinned by sharp shins, and Mr. Stark's balls are resting in the hollow between his collarbones. It's claustrophobic and Mr. Stark's weight makes it hard to breathe, but the sound that stirs in Peter's throat isn't unhappy as he watches Mr. Stark stroke his cock.

The cock that's so close, so close to Peter's face, but too far to reach until Mr. Stark wants him to have it. Peter's hips twist and he whines. There's no way to get friction on his own dick.

"Slut," Mr. Stark mutters fondly, and then he's rubbing himself all over Peter's face and Peter's clumsy, trying to get that dick in his mouth. He stops when there's a disapproving click of Mr. Stark's tongue. "I'll shove my cock down your throat when I'm good and ready. Not before."

Peter exhales against Mr. Stark's shaft, aroused and frustrated, and Mr. Stark's nostrils flare. 

"Stick your tongue out," he murmurs, and Peter obeys. He's rewarded with a cock slapping, meaty, against the flat surface. Mr. Stark rubs himself along Peter's tongue, leaving bitter and salt.

"Be a good boy now and relax as much as you can," Mr. Stark says. "All you have to do is take it. Can you do that for me, Pete? Can you be my little fuckhole?"

Peter's breathing hard and shallow. He's floating on fear and desire. "Yes, Daddy."

"Good boy. Here we go."

Mr. Stark moves cautiously at first, angling his cock into Peter's mouth with one hand, bracing the other on the headboard. His thrusts are slow and shallow. Peter's hands curl into fists, anxious about his airway even though Mr. Stark's being so careful.

Everything feels close and tight with his eyes open, and his hindbrain keeps sending danger signals. He can't get up. He has no leverage to fight this. Peter closes his eyes and tries to keep breathing.

"That's it, baby, just relax."

Mr. Stark's thrusts get faster, faster, sloppier. The blunt head hits the back of Peter's throat and Peter gags. His bitten-ragged fingernails dig into his palms and he breathes. He tries to breath. More thrusts hit his throat, and Peter struggles – not outwardly, not struggling against Mr. Stark, but fighting himself for calm. Fighting to relax. Fighting to be good and take it. He has to.

He feels Mr. Stark lean forward, looming over his head, blocking out the world, and Peter breathes. Peter tries. A big fist grabs at his hair and tilts his head back. The next thrust, Mr. Stark's cock slides right in. Deeper. Peter tries to draw a breath and he can't, Mr. Stark just buried there, hips hitching against Peter's face in little pulses.

That high animal sound, that's him. The soft shushing, that's Mr. Stark. Then his throat is free and he gasps in a breath, choking a little on bitter pre-come. 

"So good, baby, you're doing so good. Can't believe you're still hard, fuck. Just relax." Mr. Stark begins to thrust again, every stroke stabbing deep, and Peter's overwhelmed. But he forces himself still, forces his throat, at least, to relax, while the rest of him's strung like a bow. 

Mr. Stark's weight is off his chest, and as Peter lets go, he realizes he can breathe. Enough. There are moments where he can't, moments where the dark pink of his eyelids speckle with black, where he can feel his brain stuttering off, but before it does, Mr. Stark always gives him a window, a moment just long enough to draw air. 

He can breathe if he relaxes. If he waits. If he's passive. He can breathe when Mr. Stark lets him. 

Some part of him comes untethered. He lays there getting his throat drilled and his mind is empty, or maybe filled with soft fluffy cotton. He breathes when he can, suffocates when he can't, but one isn't better than the other. It's all the same, it's all…not his.

He hears Mr. Stark swear, from far away. His throat is full, nose tickling, the only thrusts left are short and deep inside him. He can't breathe. His eyelids speckle black, cloud blacker, and he's close to sliding under, he can feel it, about to happen –

And then his mouth is empty and he chokes in a breath. His eyelids go bright pink, no weight holding him down, nothing blocking out the light. Peter breathes, deep and fast, feeling not inside his body as a voice murmurs, "Beautiful. What a good boy, you deserve to feel so good – "

And then wet soft warmth around his cock, sucking stroking petting. He comes in a gentle swell, with hardly the energy to move. 

His lungs are still taking deep draughts of air when hands roll him over and a body cups him close. The world gets soft and tight and small and warm, and very far away.

And Peter sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to...whoever it was who asked why Mr. Stark always kept his shirt on, and made me go...wait, has he never taken it off? lol.


	23. Chapter 23

Peter wakes up feeling hung over. But _not_ hung over.

He's not nauseous, but his throat feels strange and bruised. He's not light sensitive, but his limbs do feel like lead. He's got no headache, but his head, his face, hurts just from touching the pillow.

He's alone. He knows that before he opens his eyes. 

He feels shivery, and abjectly miserable.

He starts to cry. It's not a leak, it's actual tears, actual sobs. The sounds tear at his throat, and it makes him sob even harder. Everything hurts and he's not sure why and he doesn't want to find out. He just wants to stop. Just wants to stop existing until all this goes away.

"Peter?" FRIDAY breaks in. "Peter, Boss is in downtown traffic and he can't turn around. He left painkillers on the bedside table to ease any after-effects of your play. He asks that you calm down and breathe."

Peter whimpers and reaches blindly for the drugs, almost knocking them to the floor and the water along with them. He manages to swallow them down without moving or opening his eyes. He does end up with a wet pillow, though.

"Tell him I'm fine," he croaks out. He curls into a little ball, pulling his knees up to his chest.

"Boss says there's soup in the kitchen that should soothe your throat. And to drink lots of water."

The thought of swallowing makes him want to weep again, but he chokes the tears down. They'll only hurt. He's always been a baby about sore throats. Any kind of pain there makes him panic. And gag. He's lucky he stayed so calm last night.

Mr. Stark could've killed him.

He feels a whine building, high and painful in his throat. He tries to breathe. Over time, the pain softens a bit, and as it goes mute, Peter slides unconscious again.

*

Peter wakes and sleeps, on and off throughout the day. He ignores FRIDAY's requests that he eat. If he doesn't move, doesn't swallow, doesn't open his eyes, he can almost pretend he's okay.

He's not okay. What the fucking hell is wrong with him. He asked Mr. Stark to smack him and he doesn't know why. _It's adaptive_ , says the Mr. Stark in his head. And maybe. Maybe. But he's not sure that he actually felt safe at the time. More like he didn't care. He didn't care if he died. And that's the opposite of adaptive, isn't it?

He knows, with absolute clarity, that if Mr. Stark wanted to hurt him more, Peter wouldn't have objected. Was there a point where Peter's self-preservation would have kicked in? Or is he just that fucked up in the head?

Peter shoves a corner of bedspread into his mouth the quell the urge to scream. He can hear the elevator doors opening.

"Pete?" Mr. Stark says quietly as he pushes his way into Peter's room. Peter keeps his eyes closed, out of some childish impulse to pretend he's asleep. "FRI said you were awake."

Fucking FRIDAY.

The bed dips as Mr. Stark sits. Fingers stroke through Peter's hair. Peter sighs and lets his eyes open. Mr. Stark has an indecipherable expression as he reaches out and tugs wet fabric out of Peter's mouth.

"Hey, kiddo. How are you feeling?"

Peter's eyes well up with tears and he struggles to muffle that sound, that awful sound like a pleading dog. 

"Oh…baby boy, what's wrong? C'mere, Daddy's got you."

He's scooped up into Mr. Stark's arms and he starts to laugh, somewhat hysterically. Daddy's got him. Right. But he hates that the it feels right – the comfort that follows. The way Mr. Stark rocks him, kisses his face, lets Peter cling so desperately.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Daddy wanted to be here, but he had business. Ssshh, you're just fine. No one's gonna hurt you."

Peter giggles, demented.

He hears a smile in Mr. Stark's voice. "Okay, well. No one's gonna hurt you right now. You deserve to be spoiled a little. Precious boy."

Peter's breath hitches, and he shoves his face tighter against Mr. Stark. A few more hot tears make their way out.

"FRIDAY said you didn't eat," Mr. Stark eventually says. 

"Throat hurts," Peter says. His voice sounds completely wrecked. Mr. Stark makes an affirming/sympathetic/inquisitive noise, and Peter feels safe to whine, "I h-hate it when my throat hurts, Daddy."

"Aww, baby." Mr. Stark tips Peter's face up so he can see him, tenderly stroking his cheek. The look on his face makes Peter's vision blurry. "We won't play that game again. Daddy didn't know."

Peter's embarrassed. He's not sure why he's so…so…

Mr. Stark shifts to the edge of the bed and stands, readjusting Peter's weight in his arms for a better grip. 

"Let's get something in your tummy, hmm? I promise you'll feel better. We can snuggle up and watch a movie."

Peter nods, clinging to Mr. Stark's neck.

*

The next few days are like that – awful. Helpless. Maybe Peter leans into it a little. Lets himself be pampered. Mr. Stark sticks around a lot, feeds him and pets him and hugs him. It's the only thing that cuts through Peter's misery even a little.

By the fourth day, Peter can swallow almost freely, and his panic begins to subside. 

Mr. Stark has been nothing but patient. But Peter still feels a tick of paranoia under his skin. "I'm sorry to be so much trouble, Daddy," he tells him. His head is on Tony's thigh for optimal petting.

"Not your fault, baby. We don't have to play so rough if it makes you unhappy."

Peter hesitates. Even now, with Mr. Stark's big calloused hand gentle in his hair, Peter thinks about pulling at his roots or bruising his jaw, and it…

"Maybe if we just don't hurt my throat?" Peter tries. "I like…I like it when you hurt me for fun."

Mr. Stark gently turns him so he can see Peter's face, and Peter wonders if he looks like he's lying. It feels like a lie. Although it's not. It's… _like it_ maybe isn't quite accurate. Want it, maybe. Crave it, need it. Is desperate for it.

_Whatever_ Mr. Stark sees on his face, it makes him smile. He boops Peter's nose. "Okay, baby. If that's what you want."


	24. Chapter 24

Before Peter was kidnapped, he was writing a midterm paper for ninth grade biology.

He's been thinking a lot about that paper lately. Not because he has nothing better to do (though he doesn't), or because he'll ever get to finish it or graduate (because he so won't), but because it's become shockingly relatable to his own life.

His topic was this really old study. Rats were placed in a Skinner box, with a twist: instead of choosing between a food lever and a shock lever, they could choose between a food lever and one that turned on an electrode planted right against the rat's pleasure center. When the rats hit that lever, they experienced an otherworldly feeling of reward. Stronger than anything they'd ever felt. Stronger than anything their bodies felt naturally.

And like, obviously, the rats hit the pleasure lever a lot. Thousands of times an hour, a lot. When the box was empty and the rats were well-fed, that was no surprise. 

But then they also hit that lever even if it meant they'd go hungry. They hit the pleasure lever if it meant they'd go thirsty. Males chose the pleasure lever over a female in heat. Females chose the lever over caring for their newborn pups. They'd even subject themselves repeatedly to painful shocks as long as it meant they could hit that fucking lever. 

Rats chose that pleasure, that ultimate high, to the exclusion of everything else. To the detriment of their well-being. Hell, to their actual _survival_. Some rats were on their way to voluntary starvation if the experimenters hadn't removed them.

It was a fucked up, cool, fascinating topic, but at the time, his interest was purely intellectual. Like, Peter understood the connection to drug addiction and stuff, but it had no connection to his life. 

It never occurred to him that one day, he'd _relate_ to those rats. 

Because he does. 

Peter _knows_ that he's flirting with something self-destructive. But it feels so fucking good, it's hard to take his hand off that lever. It's hard to stop himself from hitting it, harder, faster, more and more.

It's been a month since Mr. Stark suffocated Peter on his dick. And Mr. Stark has stayed away from his throat, okay? He's careful during blowjobs, not to thrust too hard or too deep, not to put Peter in a position where he can't get away. Blowjobs are where Peter's safe.

But everything else… 

Mr. Stark smacks Peter – ass, thighs, and face. Hard enough to leave marks. Bites him, sometimes until he draws blood. Pins him, arm twisted behind his back until his shoulder weeps for mercy. Yanks his hair until the roots ache. Fucks him, fast and hard and without enough lube.

And Peter _loves_ it. Peter begs for more. Peter wallows in all the pain he can get, body thrumming as Mr. Stark hurts him. Bigger, harder, worse. As Mr. Stark degrades him, calling him a dirty slut. A come-rag. A shameless whore.

Peter mashes that lever, harder, harder, harder, harder. Asks before he can receive. Begs before he can be ordered. Pushing, pushing, pushing, pushing. Anything to keep that floaty, tranquil terror for his life flooding in. Anything to get him that _high_.

But lately, he feels it less and less. Mr. Stark hits him, and Peter knows it won't be _too_ hard. Mr. Stark slams his head into a wall, and Peter knows he'll avoid serious damage. Sometimes Peter imagines things, fucked up, gruesome things, things he hopes he'd never ask for in real life.

It's a weird, twisted thing to fuck someone you _know_ would kill you – literally kill you, with no remorse – and need something _more_ , something extra, to fear for your life.

But Peter keeps hitting that lever.

*

Peter wakes up to a slice of light spilling into his bedroom, outlining a looming silhouette.

Peter's groggy and disoriented – he went to bed alone at 1am and slept so hard that he drooled on his pillow. "…Daddy?"

"Mm, yeah, baby, it's me." 

Mr. Stark moves into the room, face materializing when he gets close. He settles on the bed by Peter's hip and starts to stroke Peter's hair. Peter's eyes start to drift shut, wanting back to sleep.

But slowly a smell filters into his consciousness. The smell of…wet pennies.

Peter's pulse jumps as he looks closer at Mr. Stark. The man looks…off. A little wild. Eyes all pupil. Suit disheveled. Peter's eyes land on a dark splatter of something staining Mr. Stark's collar, and up across his throat. It's hard to make out a color in this light, but it must be blood.

Suddenly, Peter's wide awake. He wonders if Mr. Stark killed a man tonight, or just watched. He's rumpled enough, Peter thinks he must have been hands-on to some degree.

Peter feels dread squirming in his gut, a premonition of danger. He breathes. His dick starts to get hard.

Mr. Stark's hand wandered down to Peter's hip while he was preoccupied, and he uses it to roll Peter onto his back. Peter makes himself pliant, heart pounding, as Mr. Stark folds his legs out of the way and climbs into place. 

Peter's naked – no point in pajamas – sprawled out on his back with his hips in Mr. Stark's lap, and his skin is crawling with anticipation. Mr. Stark's hands roam, gentle but possessive, over his skin, and Peter lets the impatience build, build, build, as long as he can stand.

Mr. Stark likes when Peter begs to be hurt, but not if he's pushy. Not if he asks too soon.

The man's hands have gotten greedy, less careful, more careless, when Peter finally lets himself whine, " _Daddy_." 

Mr. Stark smirks, eyes fathomless in the dim light. "What do you want, baby? Tell Daddy."

 _More,_ Peter wants to say. _Worse_. _Make me hurt and then make me believe you won't stop_. 

But there's a little voice, still alive in his head, cautioning him not to say that. He shouldn't want to die, just feel as though he might.

"I want… I want…" Peter gropes for something enough, but something reasonable. "Will you…I want you to – "

Mr. Stark reaches up and strokes Peter's cheek a bit too tenderly. His hand carries the sharp tang of metal – maybe traces of blood. "What can Daddy do, sweetheart? What do you want?"

"Will you – " Not blood, not… "Will you choke me, Daddy?"

A little smile starts to grow on Mr. Stark's face. His hand settles over Peter's throat, light and caressing. "Want Daddy to squeeze, sweetheart?"

"Please, Daddy." Peter's dick throbs. His brain starts to disconnect in anticipation. "Please choke me."

Mr. Stark's fingers tighten just a little on Peter's throat, his face dark and excited. Peter feels himself start to drift, start to float off and it's so good, exactly what he wanted, and then Mr. Stark says

"No."

And Peter slams back to earth with a sob. "Please. Daddy, please."

Mr. Stark looks pleased by his reaction. It's not a nice expression. "Take my cock out, darling."

Peter's vision blurs, but he reaches for Mr. Stark's fly.

And as he works, Mr. Stark continues, softly, "I'm not going to choke you, sweetheart. I'm not going to compress your windpipe from the outside. That's not safe." 

Peter wants to laugh, wants to sob. He does neither. He pushes Mr. Stark's slacks down and wraps his hand around the man's cock. He starts to stroke, ignoring the choking lump of desperation in his throat. 

"Get Daddy all the way hard, baby. Can't wait to fuck you. Just like that, angel. Now slick me up." 

Peter fishes lube out of the drawer. Mr. Stark's fingers twitch against Peter's throat as Peter wets his cock. The fingers squeeze down just a little more – not enough – as he positions his dick at Peter's ass. More – not enough but more – as stares down between their bodies and watches himself press inside. 

He moans when he's buried deep. The breath washing over Peter reeks of scotch, and it occurs to him that Mr. Stark looks a little drunk.

Maybe…maybe it's better…

"Now where was I?" Mr. Stark mumbles. His hips start a slow and rather distracted rhythm as his eyes return to Peter's face. They're a little unfocused. They drop to his hold on Peter's throat. "Oh, right. I was explaining why I'm not going to wring your pretty neck."

Mr. Stark licks his lips, fucking Peter a little bit faster.

"I'm not gona to choke you, Peter. I'm not going to strangle you til you wheeze and struggle and beg. I'm not going to leave a hand-shaped bruise across your throat for you to stare at in the mirror for a week."

Peter jerks and whines as Mr. Stark's cock hits his prostate. The man's hand spasms a little tighter – enough that Peter can't suck the oxygen in like he needs. 

"Choking isn't safe," Mr. Stark says. "If I bear down on your throat, all sorts of nasty things can happen. I could crush your larynx. Damage your carotid. I could give you a stroke. Make you choke on your own tongue. Give you brain damage. I could stimulate your vagus nerve and send your heart rate plummeting. Make your rhythm irregular. Trigger cardiac arrest. I could kill you."

Mr. Stark's face is heavy with lust, panting as he fucks Peter faster. 

Peter knows something's coming, feels the acute danger.

"I'm not gonna choke you, honey." 

Peter knows something's coming, but he doesn't know what it is. Then Mr. Stark's free hand descends his nose and mouth. Peter tries to gasp on instinct, but he can't get any air. 

It's an animal, involuntary panic that has him bucking. Mr. Stark laughs, manically delighted, and rides it out. Keeps his hand clamped over Peter's face as Peter fights.

"Nobody's ready to go softly, kiddo – even when they ask for death. Everybody kicks and screams at the end."

Mr. Stark hasn't missed a beat in fucking him. Peter's vision starts to tunnel, then suddenly he's free, sucking in deep breaths, trembling with adrenaline. 

The hand is back before he's caught his breath all the way, big enough to cover his entire lower face. This time he saw it coming, gasped in a breath right before it landed. He doesn't fight. He doesn't fight, this time, not right away. He tries to stay calm and still. Still and calm. 

Even as he starts to feel lightheaded, he tries not to fight. He thinks about other things. His cock is throbbing hard and Mr. Stark looks as aroused as he's ever seen him. Peter's lungs start to burn.

"I could still give you brain damage like this, of course. Cardiac arrest, too. All in all, it's much safer. I'm not interrupting blood flow, just inducing hypoxia…there you go. Feeling it now, huh?"

Peter's body tries to draw a breath against the seal of Mr. Stark's hand. He can't…he can't get air and it hurts. Tears spring to his eyes and he gropes at Mr. Stark's forearm, pulling. It doesn't budge. 

Mr. Stark's eyes burn with greed as he soothes, "You're safe, baby, promise – I know how far I can take it. Just relax, okay, relax and trust me."

Peter starts to float. His limbs feel heavy, but his body's light. It's still jerking ineffectually, more stubborn than Peter's brain, but it hardly feels like it's him. He's so far away –

The first gasp of air jolts him back to his flesh. The second lights up every cell in his body. Everything fucking…tingles. As his brain comes back online, Peter starts to moan. His dick's so fucking hard. He sees fucking stars.

Mr. Stark pins Peter's legs against his chest with his weight and nails Peter's prostate. Peter's eyes feel wet. He cries for it. Mr. Stark kisses him for a second, and Peter can taste his scotch.

The position is already shortening Peter's breath, but then Mr. Stark blocks off his air again. His face is so close. Peter can see every avid flicker of emotion as he watches Peter suffocate. Everything hits him a lot faster, this time. He can't hold his breath with Mr. Stark pounding him at this angle. His moans are muffled, but they still want to break free. 

He has no leverage to struggle this time, except with hands. They're numb, he realizes, watching himself hit Mr. Stark's shoulder like it's someone else. 

His brain detaches from his body neatly, all at once. It doesn't want to be there anymore. 

The out-of-body feeling is made more surreal by Mr. Stark's mouth tickling at his ear. "If I ever have to end you, this – " 

Mr. Stark continues, but Peter doesn't hear it. Or he does, but from fifteen feet underwater, more timber than speech. He feels suspended in this dying, disembodied place for what feels like way too long. 

One errant thought floats through his empty head before he blacks out – this is how I die.

He isn't frightened.

He gasps in a lungful of oxygen and comes nearly at the same time. He feels it all over, in every cell, bright and alive and intense and on a different plane of existence. He's still crying out and thrashing helplessly as Mr. Stark swears and holds him down and finishes himself off.

Then they're collapsed together, sweaty and panting and spent. 

Peter's head spins, ceiling revolving slowly above the bed. Everything feels numb or not quite his. It isn't a _bad_ feeling. Nothing can touch him. He floats. He feels strangely peaceful.

"Will I get to come?" he hears himself slur out.

"Mm?" Mr. Stark hums against his throat. He drags his beard back and forth against soft skin. Peter shudders.

"When you kill me," Peter says. Weird, he didn't…know he was thinking about it, really. "Will I get an orgasm like that first?"

Mr. Stark props himself up, studying Peter and grinning when he grins. "Wasn't sure you were with me when I said that."

"Only a little." Peter laughs at the absurdity of his life, giddy with endorphins. He really hit that lever hard, this time. "So, will I?"

Mr. Stark kisses his nose, looking soft and fond again. "Yeah. If I ever have to kill you, I'll give you a hell of an orgasm first."

"Mm, good." Peter feels sleep dragging at him, pulling him down. "Long as you give me that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us remind ourselves that Tony is ultimately, literally willing to kill Peter (though he had no intention of killing him right then). Therefore, this is not like…an example to follow. Also I did a lot of homework on the effects of breathplay but there aren't as many experiential narratives on the internet as I would like, so…I mean. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> sorry for the delay - I'd like to promise it won't happen again, but I'd probably be a lying liar.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Suicidal ideation starts ramping up seriously from here (passive, but pronounced). Take care of yourselves.
> 
> tl;dr: well I didn't mean to leave this alone for so long, especially since I did have 3 chapters in reserve...I just got stuck after that and needed a rest. but I think I jiggled things loose a little so I'm going to start posting again
> 
> and a note on tumblr asks: if you've been leaving messages about this fic, you've probably noticed that I haven't been answering them. most of the questions are now either things I feel I [already covered on previous asks](https://pretty-well-funded.tumblr.com/tagged/condition-commentary), or things I can't answer without giving away my plans. I'm not saying don't message me - if I see one that I can answer, I will. but if I don't answer, I probably saw it but didn't want to post just to say "sorry, no comment"

Peter gasps himself upright in a mortal panic. Falling. He's falling from a great height, and he can't catch a grip.

He startles when Mr. Stark starts to stroke his back. "You're okay, you're safe. You managed about an hour of sleep, everything's fine. Just a little leftover adrenaline, that's all."

Peter's head throbs. He digs the heel of his hand into his eye socket. Maybe if he pops his eyeball like a grape, he can reach the pain behind it. 

When that doesn't seem to get him close enough, he presses against both temples like a vice.

"Headache?" 

Peter nods. Whimpers when the bed moves and the bathroom light flicks on. But soon Mr. Stark is back with drugs. "Why does it hurt?"

"It's not uncommon. Your brain swells a little bit when it's deprived of oxygen."

"Fuck."

"C'mere, baby. Lay back down with me."

Peter fits himself against Mr. Stark as tightly as he can, like that can make the pain stop. It's a distraction, at least, the way he pets through Peter's hair and down his back. It's not enough to take Peter's mind off his pounding head.

"You're usually gone when I wake up," he mumbles against Mr. Stark's skin. It's salty with sweat. 

"Mm. I can't sleep with someone else in the bed."

"So you were awake?"

"Mmhm."

For some reason, the thought of Mr. Stark lying awake in the dark makes him sad. He blinks back tears. What the fuck. "I'm sorry."

Peter's pulled closer. "Sshh. Don't cry, baby – everything is fine."

"I'm sorry." Peter's embarrassed of his wobbly tone. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Mr. Stark presses a kiss to his temple. "Just breathe, sweetheart. Breathe." He's being so soft and understanding; Peter's grateful. Why can't he just be this person? Why can't he be like this all the time? "This is normal. Your body thinks you almost died. It's just trying to come back down. It'll pass."

Peter hides his face and tries to will away the tears. He feels swamped with sadness, sludgy and sucking. The thing is, Mr. Stark is wrong – it's not just a chemical reaction. His feelings are rooted in reality. There's a good reason everything feels wrong: everything _is_ wrong. 

_Everything actually is wrong._

Peter chokes down a sob, feeling chilled to the bone. He tries to stifle everything more when Mr. Stark squeezes him tighter and kisses his face.

There's a question that Peter has wanted to ask. Until now, it seemed far too dangerous to ask out loud. Now…now, it doesn't matter. Peter _needs_ to know. 

"How long will you keep me?"

Mr. Stark's hand pauses in its steady sweeping rhythm up and down Peter's spine. When he speaks, he sounds a bit confused. "I thought I was pretty clear, sweetheart. I'm never letting you go."

"No, I know. I know that." He sounds small and pathetic and he hates it. "I just mean…when are you going to kill me?"

There's a long, drawn-out silence where Peter wonders what he's hoping for. Never? Five years from now? Tomorrow?

Then Mr. Stark pulls away to look at his face. "Did you think I was threatening you earlier? Because I wasn't – not seriously."

Peter's eyes go damp again. He sniffs it back. "I know. But that's…that's how this ends, right? Eventually? I just want…" Peter coughs, trying to get the grating whine out of his tone. "I just want to know how long I've got."

Mr. Stark is frowning at him a little, like Peter isn't asking a logical question. "I don't have an answer, Pete. I want to keep you around for as long as I can. As long as you'll let me."

Peter closes his eyes against them burning and burrows back against Mr. Stark's weight. Burrows back in, and lets Mr. Stark pet him. 

He starts to weep, startled at his own disappointment with the answer. At the long stretch of endless unbearable sameness stretching out before him. Now that he's heard there's no end, he can't…he can't…how can he keep doing this? For who knows how long?

Mr. Stark holds him as he cries, shushing and soothing and saying sweet things. Rocks him as he sobs harder. In fact, he cancels the next day's plans and babies Peter the whole weekend.

*

On Monday, Peter puts on his best face so that Mr. Stark will finally leave. His attempts to comfort Peter – to cheer him up – are exhausting. He just wants to be alone.

Some of the desperation has faded over the weekend, but he feels put together wrong. Breakable. Made of tissue paper. He crawls back into bed after he's convinced Mr. Stark he's fine.

Once alone, he spends a while just…feeling what's inside him.

There's a frightening pain inside his chest. He's never…it's like nothing he's ever experienced before. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to blink. It hurts to keep his eyes open. 

This hurts, the pain says to him. This hurts. Make it stop.

What hurts? he wonders. What's wrong?

This. Everything. Your life. It hurts so bad. How long can you do this? How long?

Peter buries his face in his pillow and sobs.

*

The hurt doesn't leave.

Sometimes he can press it down. In the evenings, in the mornings, when Mr. Stark is around. He knows he isn't mimicking normal, not well, but he's…standing. Talking. Eating. 

But after Mr. Stark leaves, it's worse. Some days he has to stuff his fist in his mouth to delay the crying jag – long enough for the elevator doors to close. There's nothing… _nothing_ that keeps it from happening. Nothing that stops everything he pushed down from rocketing back up the moment he's not ruthlessly suppressing it. No distraction or comfort can stop the tears. The crying overrides everything, for as long as it wants. It comes in waves, and sometimes it seems endless. 

He never knows that he's done until his tears start to itch. 

It’s not a release. He hurts, physically, all the time. His eyes hurt, his brain hurts, his sinuses hurt. His abs. Crying is exhausting. It takes a lot of energy. It takes _all_ his energy. Whenever he's done crying, he almost immediately falls fast asleep.

*

Mr. Stark watches him when they're together. Closely. Too closely. It's hard for Peter to keep up the mask. The man asks questions. So many questions. What did you do today? What do you want for dinner? When was the last time you showered? Did you wash your hair? When did you eat? What did you eat? How much did you eat?

When Mr. Stark isn't asking, he's coaxing. Gentle, gentle. Offering Peter's favorite foods, asking if Peter wants to see Darcy, wants to be pampered. Reading Peter's favorite books. Feeding Peter bite by bite. Gentle kisses. Gentle orgasms. Gentle fucking. Gentle, gentle, gentle, gentle.

It's all so gentle, so unbearably exhausting. The questions wear him out – his answers are always wrong. The books wear him out – an assault of words pushing relentlessly into his ears. The food wears him out – opening his mouth again and again, chewing chewing chewing chewing chewing, swallowing, repeat for fucking ever, until the day he fucking dies. 

The orgasms. They're maybe the most exhausting thing of all. Better, if Mr. Stark just used him. Just let Peter lay there while he used Peter's body. Somehow, that's not good enough. For some reason, Peter has to – if not participate – "enjoy" the experience. Mr. Stark wants to make him feel pleasure. Or at least a physical orgasm.

The longer it goes on, the harder it is to tolerate. The gentleness, the coaxing, the questions. It all makes Peter angry. And the anger builds, and builds, and builds. It chokes him. He can't breathe. He can never breathe these days. 

He just wants to sleep. 

*

In the end, Peter doesn't hear the straw that breaks his back. Mr. Stark's voice has become a background noise, a constant irritating hum, _Wah-wah wah-wah-wah-wah, wah-wah-wah-WAH wah-wah. Wah-wah. WAH-wah. WAH-WAH._

Fingers snapping in his face. "PETER. Are you in there?"

All that pressure bottled up in chest, bowing his ribs, crushing his heart and lungs and keeping out the oxygen he needs to live, bursts out of him at once. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK YOU. Leave me alone! Leave me the FUCK alone, you're always talking! You never shut the FUCK up. I don't give a FUCK about anything you're saying. Just LET ME BE."

The silence practically rings. The lack of sound emphasizes the lack of a slap. Mr. Stark stares at him. With that face. That face that terrifies Peter. But Peter isn't scared. 

The little thing, the little thing inside his head that sighs in disappointment every goddamn time he wakes up quivers with anticipation. He feels something _good_ for the first time in weeks. Like…victory. Triumph. Winning.

And then Mr. Stark says, "Fine. If you want to be alone, I have business out of town. It'll keep me at least 10 days. Maybe longer."

Mr. Stark waits, watches. Watches Peter's face; waits for him to beg and grovel and plead. 

But Peter feels…relief. _Overwhelming_ relief. Ten days, alone. Ten days with no questions. Ten days with no wheedling. Ten days…maybe longer.

Peter says nothing. Mr. Stark nods once, and then leaves.


End file.
